mKmiiwm^^ 


Ivison,  Slakeman,  Taylor  &  Co.  's  (Publications. 


THE  AMERICAN  EDUCATIONAL   SERIES 


THIS  justly 
mirable  gradat 
a  full  and  the 
Mathematical : 


READE 


The  bo 

UNION'  PICTOR 

lustra  ted. 
The  same.  ] 
thography. 
UNION  PRI.MAK 
UNION  SPELLEF 
UNION  READER 


Si 

Eight  nt 
SAN 


RO 

The  most  thorc 

PROGRESSIVE  T 
PROGRESSIVE  P 
FIRST  LESSONS 
ARITHMETI 
PROGRESSIVE  I> 

RUDIMENTS  OF 

PROGRESSIVE  P 
PROGRESSIVE  H 
ARITHMETICAL 
NEW  ELEMENT 
UNIVERSITV  AL 
NEW  GEOMFTR 

t^~  KEY 

for  the  use  of  t 


J.   Henry  Senger 


7/7 


Sness,  ad- 
coraprises 
advanced 


HER. 


RBADER. 


and 


jublished. 


ONIC  SEC- 


L  CALCU- 


pubUshed 


New  editions  of  the  Primary,  Common  School,  High  School,  Academic  and  Counting 

House  Dictionaries  have  recently  been  issued,  all  of  which  are 

numerously  illustrated 


Websiei 
Webster 


s  PRIMARY  SCHOOL  DICTIONARY. 
s  COMMON  SCHOOL  DICTIONARY. 


Wtbster  s  HIGH  SCHOOL  DICTIONARY. 
Webster  s  ACADEMIC  DICTIONARY. 
Webster  s  COUNTING-HOUSE  AND  FAMILY  DIC- 
TIONARY. 


Also: 
Webster's  POCKET  DICTIONARY. — A  pictorial 

abridgment  of  the  quarto. 
Webster  s  ARMY  AND   NAVY    DICTIONARY. — 

By  Captain  E.  C.  BOYNTON,  of  West  Point 

Military  Academy. 


Ivison,  33lakeman,  Taylor  <&  Co.  's  ^Publications. 


KEEL'S   STANDARD  ENGLISH  GRAMMARS. 

For  more  of  originality,  practicality,  and  completeness,  KERL'S  GRAMMARS  are  recommended 

over  others. 

KERL'S  FIRST  LESSONS  IN  GRAMMAR.  KERL'S  COMMON  SCHOOL  GRAMMAR. 

KERL'S  COMPREHENSIVE  GRAMMAR. 

Rece  ntly  issued  : 

KERL'S  COMPOSITION   AND  RHETORIC.— A  simple,  concise,  progressive,  thorough,  and  prac- 
tical work  on  a  new  plan. 

KERL'S  SHORTER  COURSE  IN  ENGLISH  GRAMMAR.— Designed  for  Schools  where  only  one  text- 
book is  used. 

We  also  publish  : 
SILL'S  NEW  SYNTHESIS  ;  or,  Elementary  Grammar. 

SILL'S  BLANK  PARSING  BOOK. — To  accompany  above. 

WELLS'  (W.  H.)  SCHOOL  GRAMMAR. 

WELLS'  ELEMENTARY  GRAMMAR. 


GRAY'S  BOTANICAL   TEXT-BOOKS. 

These  standard  text-books  are  recognized  throughout  this  country  and  Europe  as  the  most 

complete  and  accurate  of  any  similar  works  published.     They  are  more  extensively 

used  than  all  otkers  combined. 


Gray's  "  How  PLANTS  GROW." 
Gray's  LESSONS  IN  BOTANY.   302  Drawings. 
Gray's  SCHOOL  AND  FIELD  BOOK  OF  BOTANY. 
Gray's  MANUAL  OF  BOTANY.  20  Plates. 
Gray's  LESSONS  AND  MANUAL. 

Gray's  BOTANIST'S  MICROSCOPE. 


Gray's  MANUAL  WITH  MOSSES,  &c.  Illustrat- 
ed. 

Gray's  FIELD.  FOREST  AND  GARDEN  BOTANY. 
Gray's  STRUCTURAL  AND  SYSTEMATIC  BOTANY. 
FLORA  OF  THE  SOUTHERN  STATES. 

2  Lenses. 

3  " 


WILLSON'S   HISTORIES. 

Famous  as  being  the  most  perfectly  graded  of  any  before  the  public. 


PRIMARY  AMERICAN  HISTORY. 
HISTORY  OF  THE  UNITED  STATES. 
AMERICAN  HISTORY.    School  Edition. 
OUTLINES  OF  GENERAL  HISTORY.   School  Edi- 
tion. 


OUTLINES  OF  GENERAL  HISTORY.    University 

Edition. 

WILLSON'S  CHART  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY. 
PARLEY'S  UNIVERSAL  HISTORY. 


WELLS'  SCIENTIFIC  SERIES. 

Containing  the  latest  researches  in  Physical  science,  and  their  practical  application  to 
every-day  life,  and  is  still  the  best 


SCIENCE  OF  COMMON  THINGS. 
NATURAL  PHILOSOPHY. 
PRINCIPLES  OF  CHEMISTRY. 
FIRST  PRINCIPLES  OF  GEOLOGY 


Also: 

Hitchcock's  ANATOMY  AND  PHYSIOLOGY. 
Hitchcock's  ELEMENTARY  GEOLOGY. 
Eliot  &*  Storers  CHEMISTRY, 


FASQUELLE'S  FRENCH  COURSE. 

Has  had  a  success  unrivaled  in  this  country,  having  passed  through  more  than  fifty 
editions,  and  is  still  the  best. 

Fasquellis  Introductory  French  Course.  Fasquelle's  Dumas'  Napoleon. 

Fasquelle's  Larger  French  Course.  Revised.  Fasquelle's  Racine. 

Fasque lie's  Key  to  the  Above.  Fasque  lie's  Manual  of  French  Conversation. 

Fasquel'es  Colloquial  French  Reader  Howard's  Aid  to   French    Composition. 

Fasquelle's  Telemaque.  Talbofs  French  Pronunciation. 


LITERATURE 


ENGLISH  LANGUAGE; 


COMPRISING 


ifoe  Selections  from 


ALSO  LISTS  OF 


CONTEMPORANEOUS  WEITEES  AND  THEIE  PEINCIPAL  WOBKS. 


BY   E.    HUNT,  LL.D., 

HEAD  MASTER  GIRLS'  HIGH  AND  NORMAL  SCHOOL,  BOSTON. 


NEW   YORK: 
IVISON,   BLAKEMAN,   TAYLOR,  &  COMPANY, 

138  &  140  GRAND  STREET. 
CHICAGO:   133  &  135  STATE  STREET. 

1872. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1870, 

BY   EPHRAIM    HUNT, 
In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


MEMORIAM 


BOSTON  : 
ELECTROTYPED  AND'PRJNTED  BY  RAND,  AVHRY,  &  FRYE. 


PEEFAOE. 


WE  believe  no  man  should  make  a  new  text-book  without  sufficient  ex- 
cuse. The  object  of  this  book  is  to  illustrate  the  power  and  growth  of  the 
English  language  by  representative  selections  from  some  of  the  most  suc- 
cessful authors,  and  to  introduce  the  student  to  those  whose  contributions 
to  its  literature  are  worthy  his  attention.  It  is  believed,  that  by  carefully 
studying  and  thoroughly  committing  to  memory  these  selections,  and 
other  gems  of  thought  and  expression  by  the  same  authors,  or  others 
named,  and  of  easy  access,  the  pupil  will  not  only  make  acquisitions  of 
lifelong  value,  but  by  the  daily  repetition  and  frequent  imitation  of  them 
in  his  own  compositions,  in  the  class-room,  and  out  of  it,  he  will  also/orrn 
habits  of  expressing  his  own  thoughts  with  greater  force  and  elegance. 
In  no  branch  of  modern  education  is  economy  of  time  more  important 
than  in  the  study  of  English  literature.  The  heterogeneous  character  of 
the  language ;  its  wonderful  flexibility ;  its  rapid  assimilation  of  foreign 
elements ;  its  almost  perfect  reproduction  of  what  is  excellent  in  other 
languages,  ancient  and  modern;  the  activity  of  the  English-speaking 
mind  in  finding  out  all  kinds  of  knowledge,  or  in  appropriating  it  when 
found  out  by  others,  —  all  conspire  to  make  our  literature  a  vast  storehouse 
of  the  treasures  of  the  past,  and  of  the  infinitely-diversified  products  of 
the  present.  To  enable  the  student  to  enter  this  storehouse  with  pleas- 
ure, to  distinguish  the  valuable  from  the  worthless  and  indifferent,  to 
economize  his  intellectual  forces  in  the  acquisition  of  knowledge,  to  re- 
fine his  taste,  to  increase  his  love  for  all  that  is  good,  beautiful,  and  true, 
are  the  proper  aims  for  school-discipline  in  the  study  of  English  litera- 
ture. To  attain  them,  it  must  not  be  forgotten  that  all  study  is  exhaus- 
tive of  mental  energy ;  that  the  brain  works  best  by  habit,  like  any  other 
organ ;  and,  to  develop  *a  healthy  activity  of  the  faculties  of  the  mind, 
they  must  not  be  burdened  with  superfluous  weights.  Learning  the 
names  and  biographies  of  many  authors  whose  complex  relations  with 
society  he  can  not  yet  appreciate;  committing  flippant,  prejudiced,  or 
partial  criticisms  of  them  and  their  works,  of  which  he  knows  little  or 


iv  PREFACE. 

nothing,  —  tend  to  give  the  student  a  certain  dazzling  affectation  of  literary 
culture  at  the  expense  of  an  amount  ^  of  brain-work,  that,  properly  util- 
ized, would  put  him  in  possession  of  well-defined  ideas  of  excellence 
of  style,  and  enable  him  to  form  an  intelligent  and  just  estimate  of  an 
author's  merit  for  himself,  —  a  substantial  attainment  as  valuable  as  it  is 
rare.  In  the  other  great  departments  of  learning,  the  student  is  not  re- 
quired at  first  to  learn  the  history  of  them,  or  of  their  patrons  and  suc- 
cessful promoters :  on  the  contrary,  his  intellectual  forces  are  at  once 
employed  in  learning  the  general  results  already  obtained  in  them,  and 
the  best  methods  of  modern  analysis  and  investigation.  In  chemistry,  we 
do  not  begin  with  alchemy  and  the  alchemists  ;  in  astronomy,  we  do  not 
begin  with  astrology  and  the  absurd  pretensions  and  aims  of  astrologers; 
neither  do  we  stop  at  every  short  poem  in  mathematics,  or  grand  epic 
in  celestial  mechanics,  to  learn  the  biography  of  the  author,  his  relations 
to  society  and  to  science.  In  a  similar  manner,  and  mindful  of  the  great 
influence  of  American  thought  and  institutions  upon  the  language,  we 
believe  it  advisable  to  introduce  the  pupil  to  our  most  distinguished  mod- 
ern authors  first,  and,  while  putting  him  in  possession  of  the  power  and 
spirit  of  the  literature  of  to-day,  lead  him  back  to  the  classical  period, 
exciting  his  curiosity  by  the  way  to  pursue  its  earlier  history  at  liis 
leisure.  A  few  authors  carefully  studied  would  undoubtedly  produce  the 
most  valuable  results ;  but,  since  tastes  differ  as  to  which  ones  should  be  so 
studied,  it  is  thought  a  greater  number,  of  unquestioned  merit,  ought  to 
find  a  place  in  a  text-book  designed  for  drill  in  acquiring  the  best  style 
of  which  the  student  is  capable.  The  success  of  the  plan,  the  selections 
and  arrangement,  is  left  to  the  judgment  of  my  fellow-teachers,  whose 
suggestions  as  to  modifications  in  either  will  be  gratefully  acknowledged 
in  any  future  edition.  The  want  of  a  proper  text-book  to  carry  out  the 
plan  above  indicated  of  teaching  English  literature  is  the  only  excuse  for 
making  thij.  Notes  and  criticisms  are  in  the  main  omitted,  since  these 
selections  are  to  be  studied  critically,  the  pupil  using  the  dictionary  and 
encyclopaedias  with  an  industry  equal  to  that  given  to  the  study  of  Greek 
and  Latin.  Our  thanks  are  due  to  Messrs.  Fields,  Osgood,  &  Co.,  for 
special  permission  to  select  from  their  copyright  editions  of  the  works  of 
Longfellow,  Whittier,  Lowell,  Holmes,  Emerson,  Hawthorne,  and  Bry- 
ant's translation  of  Homer's  Iliad ;  also  to  Messrs-  Harper  &  Bros., 
D.  Appleton  &  Co.,  George  P.  Putnam  &  Son,  for  extracts  from  Motley, 

Bryant,  and  Irving,  whose  works  they  publish. 

THE  COMPILER. 


CONTENTS. 


THEORY  OF  BEAUTY 


PAGE. 
1 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  STYLE...  16 

WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT: 

Thanatopsis 40 

The  Conqueror's  Grave 42 

The  Past 43 

The  Evening  Wind 45 

The  Battle-Field ' 46 

The  Antiquity  of  Freedom 47 

Homer 48 

HENRY  W.  LONGFELLOW: 

A  Psalm  of  Life 54 

The  Reaper  and  the  Flowers 55 

Footsteps  of  Angels 56 

The  Beleagured  City 57 

Maidenhood 58 

Excelsior 59 

The  Building  of  the  Ship 60 

Hiawatha's  Wooing 63 

JOHN   GREENLEAF   WHITTIER..  67 

The  Eternal  Goodness 68 

The  Angels  of  Buena  Vista 70 

The  Barefoot  Boy 72 

Snowbound 74 

OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES: 
Extract  from  Poetry:  A  Metrical 

Essay 77 

The  Last  Leaf 78 

Extract  from  the  Autocrat  of  the 

Breakfast-Table 79 

NATHANIEL   PARKER  WILLIS: 

The  Dying  Alchemist 86 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL: 

Notices  of  an  Independent  Press. .  89 
A  Second  Letter  from  B.  Sawin, 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE : 

The  Raven...  ..   100 


PAGE. 
HENRY  WARD  BEECHER: 

The  Months.. 104 

A  Discourse  of  Flowers 107 

Norwood.  —  Stories  for  Children  . .   114 

The  Anxious  Leaf 116 

The  Fairy  Flower 117 

Coming  and  Going 120 

A  New-England  Sunday 122 

RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON: 

Napoleon,  or  the  Man  of  the  World,  131 

WASHINGTON  IRVING 147 

Rip  Van  Winkle 143 

The  Widow's  Retinue 161 

Biography  of  Oliver  Goldsmith  . . .   163 
History  of  New  York 170 

NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE : 

A  Rill  from  the  Town-Pump 175 

A  Select  Party 178 

WRITERS  ON  RELIGION,  &c 189 

SCHOLARS,       ESSAYISTS,      AND 

CRITICS 190 

JAMES  FENIMORE  COOPER: 

The  Capture  of  a  Whale    192 

The  Wreck  of  "  The  Ariel » 196 

AMERICAN  NOVELISTS 200 

WRITERS  ON  PHILOSOPHY  AND 

SCIENCE 201 

HISTORIANS,  LAWYERS,  POLITI- 
CIANS, AND  BIOGRAPHERS,  202 

CHARLES  DICKENS: 

Old  Curiosity  Shop 203 

Pickwick.  —  The  Dilemma 209 

Speech  of  Serjeant  Buzfuz 213 


VI 


CONTENTS. 


WILLIAM    M.  THACKERAY 215 

Charity  and  Humor 216 

EMIXEXT  EXGLISH  NOVELISTS,  225 

ALFRED  TENNYSON: 

In  Memoriam 227 

The  Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade. .  235 
Ode  on  the  Death  of  the  Duke  of 
Wellington 236 

"WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH: 

Milton 242 

Despondency  Corrected 243 

Thoughts  on  revisiting  the  Wye  . . .  250 

ELIZABETH    BARRETT    BROWX- 
IXG: 

Mother  and  Poet 251 

Aurora  Leigh 254 

EXGLISH    POETS    AXD    DRAMA- 
TISTS  '. 264 

JOHX  LOTHROP  MOTLEY: 

William  of  Orange 266 

CHARLES  SUMXER: 

Finger-Point  from  Plymouth  Rock,  275 
Expenses  of  War  and  Education 

compared 279 

Judicial  Tribunals 280 

EDWARD  EVERETT: 

Dudley  Observatory 281 

Address  before  the  New- York  Ag- 
ricultural Society 283 

DAXTEL  WEBSTER: 

Eloquence 286 

Bunker-hill  Monument 286 

Crime  revealed  by  Conscience 288 

Reply  to  Hayne 289 

SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE: 

The  Rime  of  the  Ancient  Mariner  .  293 
Hymn,  before  Sunrise,  in  the  Vale 
of  Chamounix 301 

THOMAS  HOOD: 

The  Song  of  the  Shirt 303 

The  Bridge  of  Sighs 3C5 

A  Parental  Ode  to  my  Infant  Son. .  308 


THOMAS  CAMPBELL: 
Pleasures  of  Hope. . . . 


THOMAS  BABIXGTON  MACAU- 
LAY: 

The  Prophecy  of  Capys 321 

Milton 328 

HISTORIAXS,          BIOGRAPHERS, 

AXD  TRAVELERS 343 

THEOLOGIAXS  AXD   SCHOLARS,  345 

ESSAYISTS  AXD    CRITICS 345 

WRITERS   OX    SCIEXCE 346 

THOMAS  CARLYLE: 

Oliver  Cromwell 347 

THOMAS  DE  QUTXCEY: 

The  Palimpsest 361 

CHARLES  LAMB: 

A  Quakers'  Meeting 338 

The  Two  Races  of  Men 372 

Modern  Gallantry 374 

ESSAYISTS  AXD    CRITICS 378 

SCIEXTTFIC        WRITERS         AXD 

SCHOLARS 378 

GEORGE  GORDOX,  LORD  BYRON : 

The  Dying  Gladiator 379 

Apostrophe  to  the  Ocean 380 

Lake  Geneva 381 

Destruction  of  Sennacherib 382 

Darkness 383 

SIR  WALTER  SCOTT: 

The  Lady  of  the  Lake 385 

IHSTORIAXS  AXD  TRAVELERS.  397 
XOVELISTS 398 

WILLIAM  COWPER: 

The  Timepiece 399 

ROBERT  BURNS: 

The  Cotter's  Saturday  Xight 407 

To  a  Mountain  Daisy 411 

To  Mary  in  Heaven 413 


CONTENTS. 


VI 1 


PAOE. 

POETS  AND  DRAMATISTS 413 

EDMUND  BURKE: 

Character  of  Junius 415 

Terror  a  Source  of  the  Sublime. . . .  417 
Sympathy  a  Source  of  the  Sublime,  418 
Uncertainty  a  Source  of  the  Sub- 
lime   418 

Of  Words 419 

The  Common  Effect  of  Poetry,  not 

by  raising  Ideas  of  Things 419 

General  Words  before  Ideas 421 

The  Effects  of  Words 422 

JUNTUS: 

To  the  English  Nation 423 

To  the  Duke  of  Bedford 424 

Encomium  on  Lord  Chatham 426 

To  Lord  Camden 427 

From  his  Letter  to  the  King 428 

SAMUEL.  JOHNSON: 

Letter  to  Lord  Chesterfield 431 

Extract  from  Preface  to  the  Dic- 
tionary   432 

The  Voyage  of  Life 433 

The  Right  Improvement  of  Time  . .  437 

The  Duty  of  Forgiveness 438 

Parallel  between  Dryden  and  Pope,  440 
Shakspeare 442 

DAVID  HUME: 

Of  the  Standard  of  Taste 445 

BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN: 

The  Way  to  Wealth 452 

A  Parable  against  Persecution 455 

The  Whistle 456 

Turning  the  Grindstone 458 

OLIVER  GOLDSMITH 458 

The  Deserted  Village 459 

THOMAS  GRAY: 

Elegy  written  in  a  Country  Church- 
yard   467 

POETS  AND  PROSE  WRITERS...  470 

ALEXANDER  POPE: 

Essay  on  Man 472 

JONATHAN   SWIFT 483 

Gulliver's  Travels  to  Brobdingnag.  484 


PAOE. 

DANIEL  DEFOE: 

Robinson  Crusoe 408 

Robinson    Crusoe     discovers     the 
Footprint 502 

JOSEPH  ADDISON: 

Bickerstaff  learning  Fencing 506 

On  the  Use  of  the  Fan 507 

The  Lover's  Leap 510 

Dissection  of  a  Bcaii's  Head 512 

Dissection  of  a  Coquette's  Heart.. .  514 

Visit  to  Sir  Roger  in  the  Country. .  516 

Sir  Roger  at  Church 518 

DISTINGUISHED  WRITERS 520 


JOHN  DRYDEN: 

Translation  of  Virgil. 


521 


JOHN  BUNYAN: 

Valiant's  Story 532 

SAMUEL  BUTLER: 

Description  of  Huclibras 543 

DISTINGUISHED   WRITERS 547 


JOHN  MILTON: 
Paradise  Lost . . . 


DISTINGUISHED  WRITERS. 


548 


558 


FRANCIS  BACON: 

Studies 559 

Of  Boldness 560 

Of  Goodness,  and  Goodness  of  Na- 
ture   501 

THE  BIBLE: 

David 563 

Isaiah 563 

St.  Paul 564 

WILLIAM  SHAKSPEARE 565 

Julius  Caesar 566 

EDMUND  SPENSER: 

The  Knight  and  the  Lady 619 

DISTINGUISHED  WRITERS 622 

GEOFFREY  CHAUCER: 

The  Parson  . .  625 


Vlll 


CONTENTS. 


EARLY  WRITERS. 


(i'JG 


SIR  JOHN  DE  MANDEVILLE 628 

The  Prologue 629 


SOURCES  OF  THE  ENGLISH  LAN- 
GUAGE   629 

SOURCES   OF  ENGLISH  LITERA- 
TURE...  ..  633 


ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 


THEORY    OF    BEAUTY. 

Edinburgh  Review,  May,  1811. 

I. 

OBJECTIONS  against  the  notion  of  beauty  being  a  simple  sen- 
sation or  the  object  of  a  separate  and  peculiar  faculty :  — 

1.  The  first  is  the  want  of  agreement  as  to  the  presence  and 
existence  of  beauty  in  particular  objects  among  men  whose  organ- 
ization is  perfect,  and  who  are  plainly  possessed  of  the  faculty, 
whatever  it  may  be,  by  which  beauty  is  discerned.  Now,  no 
such  thing  happens,  we  imagine,  or  can  be  conceived  to  happen, 
in  the  case  of  any  other  simple  sensation,  or  the  exercise  of  any 
other  distinct  faculty.  Where  one  man  sees  light,  all  men  who 
have  eyes  see  light  also.  All  men  allow  grass  to  be  green,  and  sugar 
to  be  sweet,  and  ice  to  be  cold;  and  the  unavoidable  inference 
from  any  apparent  disagreement  in  such  matters  necessarily  is, 
that  the  party  is  insane,  or  entirely  destitute  of  the  sense  or 
organ  concerned  in  the  perception.  With  regard  to  beauty,  how- 
ever, it  is  obvious  at  first  sight  that  the  case  is  entirely  different. 
One  man  sees  it  perpetually,  where  to  another  it  is  quite  invisible, 
or  even  where  its  reverse  seems  to  be  conspicuous.  How  can  we 
believe,  then,  that  beauty  is  the  object  of  a  peculiar  sense  or 
faculty,  when  persons  undoubtedly  possessed  of  the  faculty,  and 
even  in  an  eminent  degree,  can  discover  nothing  of  it  in  objects 
where  it  is  distinctly  felt  and  perceived  by  others  with  the  same 
use  of  the  faculty  ? 

This  one  consideration  appears  to  us  conclusive  against  the 
supposition  of  beauty  being  a  real  property  of  objects,  addressing 
itself  to  the  power  of  taste  as  a  separate  sense  or  faculty ;  and  it 
seems  to  point  irresistibly  to  the  conclusion,  that  our  sense  of  it 
is  the  result  of  other  more  elementary  feelings,  into  which  it  may 
be  analyzed  or  resolved. 


2  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

2.  A  second  objection,  however,  if  possible  of  still  greater  force, 
is  suggested  by  c^sjdjj^hig  the   prodigious  and  almost    infinite 
vark-ty  of  things   to  which  this  property  of  beauty  is  ascribed, 
and   the   iii[)o>si;>ility  of  imagining    any    one    inherent   quality 
which  can  belong  to  them  all,  and  yet  at  the  same  time  p- 

so  much  unity  as  to  pass  universally  by  the  same  name,  a:,. I  he 
recognized  as  the  peculiar  object  of  a  separate  sense  or  faculty. 
The  form  of  a  fine  tree  is  beautiful,  and  the  form  of  a  fine  wo- 
man, and  the  form  of  a  column,  and  a  vase,  and  a  chandelier. 
Yet  how  can  it  be  said  that  the  form  of  a  woman  has  any  thing 
in  common  with  that  of  a  tree  or  a  temple  ?  or  to  which  of 
the  senses  by  which  forms  are  distinguished  can  it  be  supposed  to 
appear  that  they  have  any  resemblance  or  affinity  ? 

3.  The  matter,  however,  becomes  still  more  inextricable  when 
we  recollect  that  beauty  does  not  belong  merely  to  forms  or  colors, 
but  to  sounds,  and  perhaps  to  the  objects  of  other  senses  ;  nay, 
that,  in  all  languages  and  in  all  nations,  it  is  not  supposed  to 
reside  exclusively  in  material  objects,  but  to  belong  also  to  senti- 
ments and  ideas,   and  intellectual   and   moral   existences.     Not 
only  is  a  tree  beautiful,  as  well  as  a  palace  or  a  waterfall ;  but  a 
poem  is  beautiful,  and  a  theorem  in  mathematics,  and  a  contri- 
vance in  mechanics.     But,  if  things  intellectual  and  totally  segre- 
gated from  matter  may  thus  possess  beauty,  how  can  it  possibly 
be  a  quality  of  material  objects  ?  or  what  sense  or  faculty  can 
that  be  whose  proper  office  it  is  to  intimate  to  us  the  existence  of 
some  property  which  is  common  to  a  flower  and  a  demonstration,  • 
a  valley  and  an  eloquent  discourse  ? 

4.  It  may  be  said,  then,  in  answer  to  the  questions  we  have 
suggested  above,  that  all  these  objects,  however  various  and  dis- 
similar, agree  at  least  in  being  agreeable;  and  that  this  agreeable- 
ness,  which  is  the  only    quality  they  possess   in   common,  may 
probably  be  the  beauty  which  is  ascribed  to  them  all.     Now,  to 
those  who  are  accustomed  to  such  discussions,  it  would  be  quite 
enough  to  reply,  that,  though  the  agreeableness  of  such  objects 
depends  plainly  enough  upon  their  beauty,  it  by  no  means  follows, 
but  quite    the  contrary,  that  their  beauty  depends   upon   their 
agreeableness  ;  the  latter  being  the  more  comprehensive  or  generic 
term,  under  which  beauty  must  rank  as  one  of  the  species.     Its 
nature,  therefore,  is  no  more  explained,  nor  is  less  absurdity  sub- 
stantially committed,  by  saying  that  things  are  beautiful  because 
they  are  agreeable,  than  if  we  were  to  give  the  same  explanation 
of  the  sweetness  of  sugar;  for  no  one,  we  suppose,  will  dispute, 
that,  though  it  be  very  true  that  sugar  is  agreeable  because  it  is 
sweet,  it   would  be  manifestly  preposterous  to  say  that  it  was 
sweet  because  it  was  agreeable. 

5.  In  the  first  place,  then,  it  seems  evident  that  agreeableness 


THEORY   OF  BEAUTY.  3 

in  general  can  not  be  the  same  with  beauty,  because  there  are 
very  many  things  in  the  highest  degree  agreeable  that  can  in  no 
sense  be  called  beautiful.  Moderate  heat,  and  savory  food,  and  rest 
and  exercise,  are  agreeable  to  the  body ;  but  none  of  these  can  be 
called  beautiful:  and,  among  objects  of  a  higher  class,  the  love 
and  esteem  of  others,  and  fame,  and  a  good  conscience,  and 
health  and  riches  and  wisdom,  are  all  eminently,  agreeable,  but 
none  at  all  beautiful  according  to  any  intelligible  use  of  the 
word.  It  is  plainly  quite  absurd,  therefore,  to  say  that  beauty 
consists  in  agreeableness,  without  specifying  in  consequence  of 
what  it  is  agreeable ;  or  to  hold  that  any  thing  whatever  is 
taught  as  to  its  nature  by  merely  classing  it  among  our  pleasura- 
ble emotions. 

6.  In  the  second  place,  however,  we  may  remark,  that  among  all 
the  objects  that  are  agreeable,  whether  they  are  also  beautiful  or 
not,  scarcely  any  two  are  agreeable  on  account  of  the  same  quali- 
ties, or  even  suggest  their  agreeableness  to  the  same  faculty  or 
organ.     Most  certainly  there  is  no  resemblance  or  affinity  what- 
ever between  the  qualities  which  make  a  peach  agreeable  to  the 
palate,  and  a  beautiful  statue  to  the  eye ;  which  soothe  us  in  an 
easy-chair  by  the  fire,  or  delight  us  in  a  philosophical  discovery. 
The  truth  is,  that  agreeableness  is  not  properly  a  quality  of  any 
object  whatsoever,  but  the  effect  or  result  of  certain  qualities,  the 
nature  of  which,  in  every  particular  instance,  we  can  generally 
define  pretty  exactly,  or  of  which  we  know  at  least  with  certainty 
that  they  manifest  themselves  respectively  to  some  one  particular 
sense  or  faculty,  and  to  no  other ;  and,  consequently,  it  would  be 
just  as  obviously  ridiculous  to  suppose  a  faculty  or  organ  whose 
office  it  was  to  perceive  agreeableness  in  general,  as  to  suppose 
that   agreeableness   was   a   distinct    quality  that  could  thus   be 
perceived. 

7.  The  words  "beauty"  and  "beautiful,"  in  short,  do  and  must 
mean   something,  and  are  universally  felt  to   mean  something, 
much  more  definite  than  agreeableness  or  gratification  in  general ; 
and,  while  it  is  confessedly  by  no  means  easy  to  describe  or  define 
what  that  something  is,  the  force  and  clearness  of  our  perception 
of  it  is  demonstrated  by  the  readiness  with  which  we  determine, 
in  any  particular  instance,  whether  the  object  of  a  given  pleas- 
urable emotion  is  or  is  not  properly  described  as  beautj7. 

8.  In  our  opinion,  our  sense  of  beauty  depends  entirely  on  our 
previous  experience  of  simpler  pleasures  or  emotions,  and  con- 
sists in  the  suggestion  of  agreeable  or  interesting  sensations  with 
which  we  had  formerly  been   made  familiar  by  the  direct  and 
intelligible  agency  of  our  common  sensibilities;    and   that  vast 
variety  of  objects  to  which  we  give  the  common  name  of  beauti- 
ful become  entitled  to  that  appellation  merely  because  they  all 


4  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

possess  the  power  of  recalling  or  reflecting  those  sensations  of 
which  they  have  been  the  accompaniments,  or  with  which  they 
have  been  associated  in  our  imagination  by  any  other  more  casual 
bond  of  connection.  According  to  this  view  of  the  matter,  there- 
fore, beauty  is  not  an  inherent  property  or  quality  of  objects  at 
all,  but  the  result  of  the  accidental  relations  in  which  they  may 
stand  to  our  experience  of  pleasures  or  emotions ;  and  does  not 
depend  upon  any  particular  configuration  of  parts,  proportions,  or 
colors,  in  external  things,  nor  upon  the  unity,  coherence,  or  sim- 
plicity of  intellectual  creations,  but  merely  upon  the  associations, 
which,  in  the  case  of  every  individual,  may  enable  these  inherent 
and  otherwise  indifferent  qualities  to  suggest  or  recall  to  the 
mind  emotions  of  a  pleasurable  or  interesting  description.  It 
follows,  therefore,  that  no  object  is  beautiful  in  itself,  or  could 
appear  so  antecedent  to  our  experience  of  direct  pleasures  or  emo- 
tions ;  and  that,  as  an  infinite  variety  of  objects  may  thus  reflect 
interesting  ideas,  so  all  of  them  may  acquire  the  title  of  beauti- 
ful, although  utterly  diverse  and  disparate  in  their  nature,  and 
possessing  nothing  in  common  but  this  accidental  power  of  re- 
minding us  of  other  emotions. 

9.  This  theory,  which,  we  believe,  is  now  very  generally  adopted, 
though  under  many  needless   qualifications,  shall   be   further  de- 
veloped and  illustrated  in  the  sequel:  but    at  present  we  shall 
only  remark,  that  it  serves,  at  least,  to  solve  the  great  problem 
involved  in  the  discussion,  by  rendering  it  easily  conceivable  how 
objects  which  have  no  inherent  resemblance,  nor,  indeed,  any  one 
quality  in  common,  should  yet  be  united  in  one  common  relation, 
and   consequently  acquire  one    common   name ;  just    as  all    the 
things  that  belonged  to  a  beloved  individual  may  serve  to  remind 
us  of  him,  and  thus  to  awake  a  kindred  class  of  emotions,  though 
just  as  unlike  each  other  as  any  of  the  objects  that  are  classed 
under  the  general  name  of  Beautiful. 

By  the  help  of  the  same  consideration,  we  get  rid  of  all  the 
mystery  of  a  peculiar  sense  or  faculty,  imagined  for  the  express 
purpose  of  perceiving  beauty;  and  discover  that  the  power  of 
taste  is  nothing  more  than  the  habit  of  tracing  those  associations 
by  which  almost  all  objects  may  be  connected  with  interesting 
emotions. 

10.  The  beauty  which  we  impute  to  outward  objects  is  nothing 
more  than  the   reflection  of  our  own    inward   emotions,    and    is 
made  up  entirely  of  certain  little  portions  of  love,  pity,  or  other 
affections,  which  have  been  connected  with  these  objects,  and  still 
adhere,  as  it  were,  to  them,  and  move  us  anew  whenever  they  are 
presented  to    our  observation.     Before  proceeding  to    bring  any 
proof  of  the  truth  of  this  proposition,  there  are  two  things  that 
it  may  be  proper  to  explain  a  little  more  distinctly :  First,  what 


THEORY   OF  BEAUTY.  5 

are  the  primary  affections,  by  the  suggestion  of  which  we  think 
the  sense  of  beauty  is  produced  ?  and,  secondly,  What  is  the 
nature  of  the  connection  by  which  we  suppose  that  the  objects 
we  call  beautiful  are  enabled  to  suggest  these  affections  ? 

11.  With  regard  to  the  first  of  these  points,  it  fortunately  is 
not  necessary  either  to  enter  into  any  tedious  details,  or  to  have* 
recourse    to  any  nice   distinctions.     All  sensations  that  are  not 
absolutely  indifferent,  and  are,  at  the  same  time,  either  agreeable 
when  experienced  by  ourselves,  or  attractive  when  contemplated 
in  others,  may  form  the  foundation  of  the  emotions  of  sublimity 
or  beauty. 

The  sum  of  the  whole  is,  that  every  feeling  which  it  is  agree- 
able to  experience,  to  recall,  or  to  witness,  may  become  the  source 
of  beauty  in  external  objects  when  it  is  so  connected  with  them 
as  that  their  appearance  reminds  us  of  that  feeling. 

12.  Our  proposition,  then,  is,  that  these  emotions  are  not  origi- 
nal emotions,  nor  produced  directly  by  any  material  qualities  in 
the  objects  which  excite  them,  but  are  reflections,  or  images,  of 
the  more  radical  and  familiar  emotions  to  which  we  have  already 
alluded ;  and  are  occasioned,  not  by  any  inherent  virtue  in  the 
objects  before  us,  but  by  the  accidents,  if  we  may  so  express  our- 
selves, by  ivhich  these  may  have  been  enabled  to  suggest  or  recall 
to  us  our  own  past  sensations  or  sympathies. 

13.  We  might  almost  venture,  indeed,  to  lay  it  down  as  an 
axiom,  that,  except  in  the  plain  and  palpable  case  of  bodily  pain 
or  pleasure,  we  can  never  be  interested  in  any  thing  but  the  for- 
tunes of  sentient  beings;   and  that  every  thing  partaking  of  the 
nature  of  mental  emotion  must  have  for  its  object  the  feelings, 
past,  present,  or  possible,  of  something  capable  of  sensation.     In- 
dependent, therefore,  of  all  evidence,  and  without  the  help  of  any 
explanation,  we  should  have  been  apt  to  conclude  that  the  emo- 
tions of  beauty  and   sublimity  must  have  for  their  objects  the 
sufferings  or  enjoyments  of  sentient  beings ;  and  to  reject  as  in- 
trinsically absurd  and  incredible  the   supposition  that  material 
objects,  which  obviously  do  neither  hurt  nor  delight  the  body, 
should  yet  excite,  by  their  mere  physical  qualities,  the  very  pow- 
erful emotions  which  are  sometimes  excited  by  the  spectacle  of 
beauty. 

II. 

14.  It  appears  to  us,  then,  that  objects  are  sublime  or  beautiful, 
first,  when  they  are  the  natural  signs  and  perpetual  concomitants 
of  pleasurable  sensations,  or,  at  any  rate,  of  some  lively  feeling  or 
emotion  in  ourselves  or  in  some  other  sentient  beings ;  or,  secondly, 
when  they  are  the  arbitrary  or  accidental  concomitants  of  such 
feelings ;  or,  thirdly,  when   they  bear  some  analogy  or  fanciful 


6  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

resemblance  to  things  with  which  these  emotions  are  necessarily 
connected. 

15.  The  most  obvious  and  the  strongest -association  that  can  be 
established  between  inward  feelings  and  external  objects  is  where 
the  object  is  necessarily  and  universally  connected  with  the  feeling 
by  the  law  of  Nature,  so  that  it  is  always  presented  to  the  senses 
when  the  feeling  is  impressed  upon  the  mind :    as  the  sight  or 
the  sound  of  laughter  with  the  feeling  of  gayety  5    of  weeping, 
witli  distress;  of  the  sound  of  thunder,  with  ideas  of  danger  and 
power.     Let  us  dwell  for  a  moment  on  the  last  instance.     Noth- 
ing, perhaps,  in  the  whole  range  of  Nature,  is  more  strikingly  and 
universally  sublime  than  the  sound  we  have  just  mentioned ;  yet 
it  seems  obvious  that  the  sense  of  sublimity  is  produced,  not  by 
any  quality  that  is  perceived  by  the  ear,  but  altogether  by  the 
impression  of  power  and  of  danger  that  is  necessarily  made  upon 
the  mind  whenever  that  sound  is  heard.     That  it  is  not  produced 
by  any  peculiarity  in  the  sound  itself  is  certain,  from  the  mistakes 
that  are  frequently  made  with  regard  to  it.     The  noise  of  a  cart 
rattling  over  the  stones  is  often    mistaken   for  thunder;  and,  as 
long  as  the  mistake  lasts,  this  very  vulgar  and  insignificant  noise 
is  actually  felt  to  be  prodigiously  sublime.     It  is  so  felt,  however, 
it  is  perfectly  plain,  merely  because  it  is  then  associated  with  ideas 
of  prodigious  power  and  undefined  danger;  and  the  sublimity  is 
accordingly  destroyed  the  moment  the  association  is  dissolved, 
though  the  sound  itself,  and  its  effect  on   the  organ,   continue 
exactly  the  same.     This,  therefore,  is  an  instance  in  which  sub- 
limity is  distinctly  proved  to  consist,  not  in  any  physical  quality 
of  the  object  to  which  it  is  ascribed,  but  in  its  necessary  connec- 
tion with  that  vast  and  uncontrolled  Power  which  is  the  natural 
object  of  awe  and  veneration. 

16.  We  may  now  take  an  example  a  little  less  plain  and  element- 
ary.   The  most  beautiful  object  in  Nature,  perhaps,  is  the  counte- 
nance of  a  young  and  beautiful  woman  ;  and  we  are  apt  at  first  to 
imagine,  that,  independent  of  all  associations,  the  form  and  colors 
which  it  displays  are  in  themselves  lovely  and  engaging,  and 
would  appear  charming   to    all   beholders,  with  whatever    other 
qualities  or  impressions  they  might  happen  to  be  connected.     A 
very  little  reflection,  however,  will  probably  be  sufficient  to  con- 
vince us  of  the  fallacy  of  this  impression,  and  to  satisfy  us  that 
what  we  admire  is  not  a  combination  of  forms   and  colors  (which 
could  never  excite  any  mental  emotion),  but  a  collection  of  signs 
and  tokens  of  certain  mental  feelings  and  affections,  which  are 
universally  recognized  as  the  proper  objects  of  love  and  sympathy. 
Laying  aside  the  emotions  arising  from  difference  of  sex,  and  sup- 
posing female  beauty  to  be  contemplated  by  the  pure  and  unen- 
vying  eye  of  a  female,  it  seems  quite  obvious,  that,  among  its 


THEORY  OF  BEAUTY.  7 

ingredients,  we  should  trace  the  signs  of  two  different  sets  of 
qualities,  that  are  neither  of  them  the  object  of  sight,  but  of  a 
far  higher  faculty,  —  in  the  first  place,  of  youth  and  health  ;  and, 
in  the  second  place,  of  innocence,  gayety,  sensibility,  intelligence, 
delicacy,  or  vivacity. 

17.  That  the  beauty  of  a  living  and  sentient  creature  should  de- 
pend, in  a  great  degree,  upon  qualities  peculiar  to  such  a  creature, 
rather  than  upon  the  mere  physical  attributes  which  it  may  pos- 
sess in  common  with  the  inert  matter  around  it,  can  not,  indeed, 
appear  a  very  improbable  supposition  to  any  one.     But  it  may  be 
more  difficult  for  some  persons  to  understand  how  the  beauty  of 
mere  dead  matter  should  be  derived  from  the  feelings  and  sym- 
pathies of  sentient  beings.     It  is  absolutely  necessary,  therefore, 
that  we  should  give  an  instance  or  two  of  this  derivation  also. 

18.  It  is  easy  enough  to  understand  how  the  sight  of  a  picture  or 
statue  should  affect  us  nearly  in  the  same  way  as  the  sight  of  the 
original ;  nor  is  it  much  more  difficult  to  conceive  how  the  sight 
of  a  cottage  should  give  us  something  of  the  same  feeling  as  the 
sight  of  a  peasant's  family,  and  the  aspect  of  a  town  raise  many 
of  the  same  ideas  as  the  appearance  of  a  multitude  of  persons. 
We  may  begin,  therefore,  with  an   example  a  little  more  compli- 
cated.    Take,  for  instance,  the  case  of  a  common  English  land- 
scape, —  green  meadows,  with  grazing   and   ruminating   cattle ; 
canals    or  navigable    rivers;    well-fenced,  well-cultivated   fields; 
neat,  clean,   scattered  cottages  ;    humble  antique  churches,  with 
churchyard  elms  and  crossing  hedgerows,  —  all  seen  under  bright 
skies  and  in  good  weather.     There  is  much  beauty,  as  every  one 
will  acknowledge,  in  such  a  scene.     But  in  what  does  the  beauty 
consist  ?     Not  certainly  in  the  mere  mixture  of  colors  and  forms, 
—  for  colors  more^pleasing,  and  lines  more  graceful  (according  to 
any  theory  of  grace  that  may  be  preferred),  might  be  spread  upon 
a  board  or  a  painter's  palette,  without  engaging  the  eye  to  a  second 
glance,  or  raising  the  least  emotion  in  the  mind,  —  but  in  the  pic- 
ture of  human  happiness  that  is  presented  to  our  imaginations 
and  affections;  in  the  visible  and  unequivocal  signs  of  comfort, 
and  cheerful  and  peaceful  enjoyment,  and  of   that   secure  and 
successful  industry  that  insures  its  continuance  ;  and  of  the  piety 
by  which  it  is  exalted ;  and  of  the  simplicity  by  which  it  is  con- 
trasted with  the  guilt  and  the  fever  of  a  city  life ;   in  the  images 
of  health  and  temperance  and  plenty  which  it  exhibits  to  every 
eye  ;  and  in  the  glimpses  which  it  affords,  to  warmer  imaginations, 
of  those  primitive  or  fabulous  times  when  man  was  uncorrupted 
by  luxury  and  ambition ;  and  of  those  humble  retreats  in  which 
we  still  delight  to  imagine  that  love  and  philosophy  may  find  an 
unpolluted  asylum.     At  all  events,  however,  it  is  human  feeling 
that  excites  our  sympathy,  and  forms  the  true  object  of  our  enio- 


8  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

\ 

tions.  It  is.  man,  and  man  alone,  that  we  see  in  the  beauties  of 
the  earth  which  he  inhabits ;  or,  if  ,a  more  sensitive  and  extended 
sympathy  connect  us  with  the  lower  families  of  animated  nature, 
and  make  us  rejoice  with  the  lambs  that  bleat  on  the  uplands,  or 
the  cattle  that  repose  in  the  valley,  or  even  with  the  living  plants 
that  drink  the  bright  sun  and  the  balmy  air  beside  them,  it  is 
still  the  idea  of  enjoyment  —  of  feelings  that  animate  the  exist- 
ence of  sentient  beings  —  that  calls  forth  all  our  emotions,  and  is 
the  parent  of  all  the  beauty  with  which  we  proceed  to  invest  the 
inanimate  creation  around  us. 

19.  Instead  of  this  quiet  and  tame  English  landscape,  let  us  now 
take  a  Welsh  or  a  Highland  scene,  and  see  whether  its  beauties 
will  admit  of  being  explained  on  the  same  principle.  Here  we 
shall  have  lofty  mountains,  and  rocky  and  lonely  recesses;  tufted 
woods  hung  over  precipices  ;  lakes  intersected  with  castled  prom- 
ontories ;  ample  solitudes  of  unplowed  and  untrodden  valleys  ; 
nameless  and  gigantic  ruins ;  and  mountain-echoes  repeating 
the  scream  of  the  eagle  and  the  roar  of  the  cataract.  This,  too, 
is  beautiful ;  and,  to  those  who  can  interpret  the  language  it 
speaks,  far  more  beautiful  than  the  prosperous  scene  with  which 
we  have  contrasted  it.  Yet,  lonely  as  it  is,  it  is  to  the  recollection 
of  man  and  the  suggestion  of  human  feelings  that  its  beauty  also 
is  owing.  The  mere  forms  and  colors  that  compose  its  visible 
appearance  are  no  more  capable  of  exciting  any  emotion  in  the 
mind  than  the  forms  and  colors  of  a  Turkey  carpet.  It  is  sym- 
pathy with  the  present  or  the  past,  or  the  imaginary  inhabitants 
of  such  a  region,  that  alone  gives  it  either  interest  or  beauty  ;  and 
the  delight  of  those  who  behold  it  will  always  be  found  to  be  in 
exact  proportion  to  the  force  of  their  imaginations  and  the 
warmth  of  their  social  affections.  The  leading  impressions  here 
are  those  of  romantic  seclusion  and  primeval  simplicity,  —  lovers 
sequestered  in  these  blissful  solitudes,  "from  towns  and  toils 
remote ; "  and  rustic  poets  and  philosophers  communing  with 
Nature,  and  at  a  distance  from  the  low  pursuits  and  selfish  malig- 
nity of  ordinary  mortals.  Then  there  is  the  sublime  impression 
of  the  mighty  Power  which  piled  the  massive  cliffs  upon  each 
other,  and  rent  the  mountains  asunder,  and  scattered  their  giant 
fragments  at  their  base ;  and  all  the  images  connected  with  the 
monuments  of  ancient  magnificence  and  extinguished  hostility, — 
the  feuds  and  the  combats  and  the  triumphs  of  its  wild  and 
primitive  inhabitants,  contrasted  with  the  stillness  and  desolation 
of  the  scenes  where  they  lie  interred ;  and  the  romantic  ideas 
attached  to  their  ancient  traditions,  and  the  peculiarities  of  the 
actual  life  of  their  descendants,  —  their  wild  and  enthusiastic 
poetry,  their  gloomy  superstitions,  their  attachment  to  their 
chiefs,  the  dangers  and  the  hardships  and  enjoyments  of  their 


THEORY    OF   BEAUTY.  9 

lonely  huntings  and  fishings,  their  pastoral  shielings  on  the 
mountains  in  summer,  and  the  tales  and  the  sports  that  amuse 
the  little  groups  that  are  frozen  into  their  vast  and  trackless 
valleys  in  the  winter. 

20.  Kindred  conceptions  constitute  all  the  beauty  of  childhood. 
Tli*  forms  and  colors  that  are  peculiar  to  that  age  are  not  neces- 
sarily or  absolutely   beautiful    in    themselves;    for,  in    a   grown 
person,  the  same  forms  and  colors  would  be  either  ludicrous  or 
disgusting.     It  is  their  indestructible  connection  with  the  engaging 
ideas  of  innocence,  of  careless  gayety,  of  unsuspecting  confidence  ; 
made  still  more  tender  and  attractive  by  the  recollection  of  help- 
lessness   and  blameless    and    happ}^    ignorance,    of  the    anxious 
affection  that  watches  over  all  their  ways,  and  of  the  hopes  and 
fears  that  seek  to  pierce  futurity  for  those  who  have  neither  fears 
nor  cares  nor  anxieties  for  themselves. 

21.  The  general  theory  must  be  very  greatly  confirmed  by  the 
slightest  consideration  of  the  second  class  of  cases,  or  those  in 
which  the  external  object  is  not  the  natural  and  necessary,  but 
only  the   occasional   or    accidental,  concomitant  of  the    emotion 
which  it  recalls.     In    the  former  instances,  some  conception  of 
beauty   seems    to   be    inseparable    from    the    appearance    of  the 
objects;  and  being  impressed,  in  some  degree,  upon  all  persons  to 
whom  they  are  presented,  there  is  evidently  room  for  insinuating 
that  it  is  an  independent  and  intrinsic  quality  of  their  nature,  and 
does    not    arise    from    association    with    any  thing  else.     In  the 
instances,  however,  to  which  we  are  now  to  allude,  this  perception 
of  beauty  is  not  universal,  but  entirely  dependent  upon- the  oppor- 
tunities  which   each    individual  has  had   to    associate   ideas   of 
emotion  with  the  object  to  which  it  is  ascribed;  the  same  thing 
appearing    beautiful    to   those    who    have    been    exposed   to  the 
influence  of  such  associations,  and  indifferent  to  those  who  have 
not.     Such  instances,  therefore,  really  afford   an   experimentum 
crucis*  as  to  the  truth  of  the  theory  in  question  ;  nor  is  it  easy  to 
conceive  any  more  complete  evidence,  both  that  there  is  no  such 
thing   as    absolute   or   intrinsic    beauty,    and   that    it   depends 
altogether  on  those  associations  with  which  it  is  thus  found  to 
come  and  to  disappear. 

22.  The  accidental   or  arbitrary  relations   that    may  thus   be 
established  between  natural  sympathies  or  emotions  and  external 
objects  may  be  either  such  as  occur  to  whole  classes  of  men,  or 
are  confined  to  particular  individuals.     Among  the  former,  those 
that  apply  to  different  nations  or  races  of    men  are    the    most 
important   and  remarkable,    and    constitute    the    basis    of    those 
peculiarities  by  which  national  tastes  are  distinguished.     Take 

*  "  A  decisive  experiment." 


10  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

again,  for.  example,  the  instance  of  female  beauty,  and  think 
what  different  and  inconsistent  standards  would  be  fixed  for  it  in 
the  different  regions  of  the  world,  —  in  Africa,  in  Asia,  and  in 
Europe ;  in  Tartary  and  in  Greece ;  in  Lapland,  Patagonia,  and 
Circassia.  If  there  was  any  thing  absolutely  or  intrinsically 
beautiful  in  any  of  the  forms  thus  distinguished,  it  is  inconceiv- 
able that  men  should  differ  so  outrageously  in  their  conceptions 
of  it.  If  beauty  were  a  real  and  independent  quality,  it  seems 
impossible  that  it  should  be  distinctly  and  clearly  felt  by  one  set 
of  persons,  where  another  set,  altogether  as  sensitive,  could  see 
nothing  but  its  opposite ;  and  if  it  were  actually  and  inseparably 
attached  to  certain  forms,  colors,  or  proportions,  it  must  appear 
utterly  inexplicable  that  it  should  be  felt  and  perceived  in  the 
most  opposite  forms  and  proportion  in  objects  of  the  same 
description.  On  the  other  hand,  if  all  beauty  consist  in  reminding 
us  of  certain  natural  sympathies  and  objects  of  emotion  with 
which  they  have  been  habitually  connected,  it  is  easy  to  perceive 
how  the  most  different  forms  should  be  felt  to  be  equally  beautiful. 
If  female  beauty,  for  instance,  consist  in  the  visible  signs  and 
expressions  of  youth  and  health,  and  of  gentleness,  vivacity, 
and  kindness,  then  it  will  necessarily  happen  that  the  forms  and 
colors  and  proportions  which  Nature  may  have  connected  with 
those  qualities,  in  the  different  climates  or  regions  of  the  world, 
will  all  appear  equally  beautiful  to  those  who  have  been  accustomed 
to  recognize  them  as  the  signs  of  such  qualities ;  while  they  will 
be  respectively  indifferent  to  those  who  have  not  learned  to  inter- 

Eret  them  in  this  sense,  and  displeasing  to  those  whom  experience 
as  led  to  consider  them  as  the  signs  of  opposite  qualities. 
23.  The  case  is  the  same,  though  perhaps  to  a  smaller  degree,  as 
to  the  peculiarity  of  national  taste  in  other  particulars.  The  style 
of  dress  and  architecture  in  every  nation,  if  not  adopted  from  mere 
want  of  skill,  or  penury  of  materials,  always  appears  beautiful  to 
the  natives,  and  somewhat  monstrous  and  absurd  to  foreigners; 
and  the  general  character  and  aspect  of  their  landscape,  in  like 
manner,  if  not  associated  with  substantial  evils  and  inconveni- 
ences, always  appears  more  beautiful  and  enchanting  than  the 
scenery  of  any  other  region.  The  fact  is  still  more  striking, 
perhaps,  in  the  case  of  music,  —  in  the  effects  of  those  national 
airs  with  which  even  the  most  uncultivated  imaginations  have 
connected  so  many  interesting  recollections,  and  in  the  delight 
with  which  a1.!  persons  of  sensibility  catch  the  strains  of  their 
native  melodies  in  strange  or  in  distant  lands.  It  is  owing  chiefly 
to  the  same  sort  of  arbitrary  and  national  association  that  white 
is  thought  a  gay  color  in  Europe,  where  it  is  used  at  weddings, 
and  a  dismal  color  in  China,  where  it  is  used  for  mourning ;  that 
we  think  yew-trees  gloomy  because  they  are  planted  in  church- 


THEORY  OF   BEAUTY.  11 

yards,  and  large  masses  of  powdered  horse-hair  majestic  because 
we  see  them  on  the  heads  of  judges  and  bishops. 

24.  Next  to  those  curious  instances  of  arbitrary  or  limited  as- 
sociations that  are  exemplified  in  the  diversities  of  national  taste 
are  those  that  are  produced  by  the  differences  of  instruction  or  edu- 
cation.    If  external  objects  were  sublime  and  beautiful  in  them- 
selves, it  is  plain  that  they  would  appear  equally  so  to  those  who 
were  acquainted  with  their  origin  arid  to  those  to  whom  it  was 
unknown.     Yet  it  is  not  easy,  perhaps,  to  calculate  the  degree  to 
which  our  notions  of  beauty  and  sublimity  are  now  influenced, 
over  all  Europe,  by  the  study  of  classical  literature  ;  or  the  number 
of  impressions  of  this  sort  which  the  well-educated  consequently 
receive  from  objects  that  are  utterly  indifferent  to  uninstructed 
persons  of  the  same  natural  sensibility. 

25.  The  influences  of  the  same  studies  may  be  traced,  indeed, 
through  almost  all  our  impressions  of  beauty,  and  especially  in  the 
feelings  which  we  receive  from  the  contemplation  of  rural  scenery, 
where  the  images  and  recollections  which  have  been  associated 
with  such  objects    in  the  enchanting    strains   of  the    poets    are 
perpetually  recalled  by  their  appearance,  and  give  an  interest  and 
a  beauty  to  the  prospect  of  which  the  uninstructed  can  not  have 
the  slightest  perception.     Upon  this  subject,  also,  Mr.  Alison  has 
expressed  himself  with  his  usual  warmth   and  elegance.     After 
observing,  that,  in  childhood,  the  beauties  of  Nature  have  scarcely 
any  existence  for  those  who  have  as  yet  but  little  general  sym- 
pathy with  mankind,  he  proceeds  to  state  that  they  are  usually 
first  recommended  to  notice  by  the  poets,  to  whom  we  are  intro- 
duced in  the  course  of  education,  and  who,  in  a  manner,  create 
them  for  us  by  the   associations  which   they  enable  us  to  form 
with  their  visible  appearance.* 

26.  Before  entirely  leaving  this  branch  of  the  subject,  however, 
let  us  pause  for  a  moment  on  the  familiar  but  very  striking  and 
decisive  instance  of  our  varying  and  contradictory  judgments  as 
to  the  beauty  of  the  successive  fashions  of  dress  that  have  existed 
within  our  own  remembrance.     All  persons  who  still  continue  to 
find  amusement  in  society,  and  are  not  old  enough  to  enjoy  only 
the  recollections  of  their  youth,  think  the    prevailing   fashions 
becoming  and  graceful,  and  the  fashions  of  twenty  or  twenty-live 
years  old  intolerably  ugly  and  ridiculous.     The  younger  they  are, 
and  the  more  they  mix  in  society,  the  stronger  is  this  impression : 
and  the  fact  is  worth  noticing;  because  there  is  really'  no  one 
thing  as  to  which  persons  judging  merely  from  their  feelings,  and 
therefore  less  likely  to  be  misled  by  any  systems  or  theories,  are 
so  very  positive   and  decided,   as   that  established  fashions  are 

*  See  Alison  on  T^sto. 


12  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

beautiful  in  themselves,  and  that  exploded  fashions  are  intrinsic- 
ally and  beyond  all  question  preposterous  and  ugly.  We  have 
never  yet  met  a  young  lady  or  gentleman,  who  spoke  from  their 
hearts  and  without  reserve,  who  had  the  least  doubt  on  the  sub- 
ject, or  could  conceive  how  any  person  could  be  so  stupid  as  not 
to  see  the  intrinsic  elegance  of  the  reigning  mode,  or  not  to  be 
struck  with  the  ludicrous  awkwardness  of  the  habits  in  which 
their  mothers  were  disguised. 

27.  In  all  the  cases  we  have  hitherto   considered,  the  external 
object  is  supposed  to  have  acquired  its  beauty  by  being  actually 
connected  with  the  causes  of  our  natural  emotions,  either  as  a 
constant  sign  of  their  existence,  or  as  being  casually  present  on 
the  ordinary  occasions  of  their  excitement.     There  is  a  relation, 
however,  of  another  kind,  to  which  also  it  is  necessary  to  attend, 
both   to   elucidate  the    general    grounds  of  the   theory,  and   to 
explain   several  appearances  that  might  otherwise  expose  it  to 
objections.     This  is  the  relation  which  external  objects  may  bear 
to  our  internal  feelings,  and   the  power  they  may  consequently 
acquire  of  suggesting  them,  in  consequence  of  a  sort  of  resem- 
blance or  analogy  which  they  seem  to  have  to  their  natural  and 
appropriate  objects.     The   language  of  poetry  is  founded,   in  a 
great  degree,  upon  this   analogy ;  and  all    language,  indeed,  is 
full  of  it,  and  attests,  by  its  structure,  both  the  extent  to  which 
it  is  spontaneously  pursued,  and  the  effects  that  are  produced  by 
its  suggestion. 

28.  The  great  charm  indeed,  and  the  great  secret,  of  poetical 
diction,  consists  in  thus  lending  life  and  emotion  to  all  the  objects 
it  embraces;  and  the  enchanting  beaut}T  which  we  sometimes  rec- 
ognize in  descriptions  of  very  ordinary  phenomena  will  be  found  to 
arise  from  the  force  of  imagination,  by  which  the  poet  has  con- 
nected with  human  emotions   a  variety  of  objects   to  which  com- 
mon minds  could  not  discover  such  a  relation.     What  the  poet 
does  for  his  readers,  however,  by  his  original  similes  and  meta- 
phors, in  these  higher  cases,  even  the  dullest  of  those  readers  do, 
in  some  degree,  every  day,  for  themselves ;  and  the  beauty  which 
is  perceived,  when  natural  objects  are  unexpectedly  vivified  by 
the   glowing  fancy  of  the  former,  is  precisely  of  the  same  kind 
that  is   felt  when  the  closeness  of  the   analogy  enables  them  to 
force  human  feelings  upon  the  recollection  of  all  mankind.     As 
the  poet  sees  more  of  beauty  in  Nature   than   ordinary  mortals, 
just  because  he  perceives  more  of  those  analogies  and  relations  to 
social  emotion  in  which   all   beauty  consists;  so   other  men  see 
more  or  less  of  this  beauty  exactly  as  they  happen  to  possess  that 
fancy,  or  those  habits,  which  enable  them  readily   to  trace  out 
these  relations.. 

29.  Poems,  and  other  compositions  in  vyTords,  are  beautiful  in  pro- 


THEORY   OF   BEAUTY.  13 

portion  as  they  are  conversant  with  beautiful  objects,  or  as 
they  suggest  to  us,  in  a  more  direct  way,  the  moral  and  social 
emotions  on  which  the  beauty  of  all  objects  depends.  Theorems 
and  demonstrations,  again,  are  beautiful  according  as  they  excite 
in  us  emotions  of  admiration  for  the  genius  and  intellectual 
power  of  their  inventors,  and  images  of  the  magnificent  and 
beneficial  ends  to  which  such  discoveries  may  be  applied;  and 
mechanical  contrivances  are  beautiful  when  they  remind  us  of 
similar  talents  and  ingenuity,  and  at  the  same  time  impress  us 
with  a  more  direct  sense  of  their  vast  utility  to  mankind,  and  of 
tlie  great  additional  conveniences  with  which  life  is  consequently 
adorned.  In  all  cases,  therefore,  there  is  the/suggestion  of  some 
interesting  conception  or  emotion  associated  with  a  present  per- 
ception, in  which  it  is  apparently  confounded  and  embodied ; 
and  this,  according  to  the  whole  of  the  preceding  deduction,  is 
the  distinguishing  characteristic  of  beauty. 

CONCLUSIONS. 

30.  In  the  first  place,  then,  we  conceive  that  this  theory  estab- 
lishes the  substantial  identity  of  the  Sublime,  the  Beautiful,  and 
the  Picturesque;  and,  consequently,  puts  a*i  end  to  all  controversy 
that  is  not  purely  verbal  as  to  the  difference  of  those  several  quali- 
ties.     Every  material  object  that  interests  us,  without  actually 
hurting  or  gratifying  our  bodily  feelings,  must  do  so,  according  to 
this  theory,  in  one  and  the  same  manner;  that  is,  by  suggesting 
or  recalling  some  emotion  or  affection  of  ourselves  or  some  other 
sentient  being,  and  presenting,  to  our  imagination  at  least,  some 
natural  object  of  love,  pity,  admiration,  or  awe.     The  interest  of 
material  objects,  therefore,  is    always    the   same,  and    arises   in 
every  case,  not  from  any  physical  qualities  they  may  possess,  but 
from  their  association  with  some  idea  of  emotion.     But,  though 
material  objects  have  but  one    means  of  exciting  emotion,  the 
emotions  they  do  excite  are  infinite.     They  are  mirrors  that  may 
reflect  all  shades  and  all  colors ;  and,  in  point  of  fact,  do  seldom 
reflect  the  same  hues  twice.     No  two  interesting  objects,  perhaps 
—  whether  known  by  the  name  of  Beautiful,  Sublime,  or  Pictu- 
resque, —  ever  produced  exactly  the  same  emotion  in  the  beholder ; 
and  no  one  object,  it  is  most  probable,  ever  moved  any  two  per- 
sons to  the  very  same  conceptions. 

31.  The  only  other  advantage  which  we  shall  specify  as  likely 
to  result  from  the  general  adoption  of  the  theory  we  have  been 
endeavoring  to  illustrate  is,  that  it  seems  calculated  to  put  an  end 
to  all  those  perplexing  and  vexatious  questions  about  the  stand- 
ard of  taste  which  have   given  occasion  to  so  much  impertinent 
and  so  much  elaborate  discussion.     If  things  are  not  beautiful  in 


14  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

themselves,  but  only  as  they  serve  to  suggest  interesting  concep- 
tions to  the  mind,  then  every  thing  which  does  in  point  of  fact 
suggest  such  a  conception  to  any  individual  is  beautiful  to  that 
individual ;  and  it  is  not  only  quite  true  that  there  is  no  room  for 
disputing  ahout  tastes,  but  that  all  tastes  are  equally  just  and 
correct  in  so  far  as  each  individual  speaks  only  of  his  own  emo- 
tions. 

All  tastes,  then,  are  equally  just  and  true  in  so  far  as  concerns 
the  individual  whose  taste  is  in  question  ;  and  what  a  man  feels 
distinctly  to  be  beautiful  is  beautiful  to  him,  whatever  other 
people  may  think  of  it.  All  this  follows  clearly  from  the  theory 
no\v  in  question  ;  but  it  does  not  follow  from  it  that  all  tastes  are 
equally  good  or  desirable,  or  that  there  is  an}7  difficulty  in  de- 
scribing that  which  is  really  the  best,  and  the  most  to  be  envied. 
The  only  use  of  the  faculty  of  taste  is  to  afford  an  innocent 
delight,  and  to  assist  in  the  cultivation  of  a  finer  morality ;  and 
that  man  certainly  will  have  the  most  delight  from  this  faculty 
who  has  the  most  numerous  and  the  most  powerful  perceptions 
of  beauty.  But  if  beauty  consist  in  the  reflection  of  our  affec- 
tions and  sympathies,  it  is  plain  that  he  will  always  see  the  most 
beauty  whose  affections  are  the  warmest  and  most  exercised, 
whose  imagination  is  tne  most  powerful,  and  who  has  most  accus- 
tomed himself  to  attend  to  the  objects  by  which  he  is  surrounded. 
In  so  far  as  mere  feeling  and  enjoyment  are  concerned,  therefore, 
it  seems  evident  that  the  best  taste  must  be  that  which  belongs 
to  the  best  affections,  the  most  active  fancy,  and  the  most  atten- 
tive habits  of  observation.  It  will  follow  pretty  exactly,  too,  that 
all  men's  perceptions  of  beauty  will  be  nearly  in  proportion  to 
the  degree  of  their  sensibility  and  social  sympathies;  and  that 
those  who  have  no  affections  towards  sentient  beings  will  be  as 
certainly  insensible  to  beauty  in  external  objects  as  he  who  can 
not  hear  the  sound  of  his  friend's  voice  must  be  deaf  to  its 
echo. 

In  so  far  as  the  sense  of  beauty  is  regarded  as  a  mere  source 
of  enjoyment,  this  seems  to  be  the  only  distinction  that  deserves 
to  be  attended  to  ;  and  the  only  cultivation  that  taste  should  ever 
receive,  with  a  view  to  the  gratification  of  the  individual,  should 
be  through  the  indirect  channel  of  cultivating  the  affections,  and 
powers  of  observation.  If  we  aspire,  however,  to  be  creators  as 
well  as  observers  of  beaut}T,  and  place  any  part  of  our  happiness 
in  ministering  to  the  gratification  of  others,  —  as  artists,  or  poets, 
or  authors  of  any  sort,  —  then,  indeed,  a  new  distinction  of  tastes, 
and  a  far  more  laborious  system  of  cultivation,  will  be  necessary. 
A  man  who  pursues  only  his  own  delight  will  be  as  much 
charmed  with  objects  that  suggest  powerful  emotions  in  conse- 
quence of  personal  and  accidental  associations  as  with  those  that 


THEOKY    OF  BEAUTY.  15 

introduce  similar  emotions  by  means  of  associations  that  are 
universal  and  indestructible.  To  him,  all  objects  of  the  former 
class  are  really  as  beautiful  as  those  of  the  latter ;  and,  for  his 
own  gratification,  the  creation  of  that  sort  of  beauty  is  just  as 
important  an  occupation.  But,  if  he  conceive  the  ambition  of 
creating  beauties  for  the  admiration  of  others,  he  must  be  cau- 
tious to  employ  only  such  objects  as  are  the  natural  signs  or  the 
inseparable  concomitants  of  emotions  of  which  the  greater  part 
of  mankind  are  susceptible ;  and  his  taste  will  then  deserve  to  be 
called  bad  and  false  if  he  obtrude  upon  the  public,  as  beautiful, 
objects  that  are  not  likely  to  be  associated  in  common  minds  with 
airy  interesting  impressions. 

For  a  man  himself,  then,  there  is  no  taste  that  is  either  bad  or 
false  ;  and  the  only  difference  worthy  of  being  attended  to  is 
that  between  a  great  deal  and  a  very  little.  Some,  who  have 
cold  affections,  sluggish  imaginations,  and  no  habits  of  observa- 
tion, can  with  difficulty  discern  beauty  in  any  thing ;  while  oth- 
ers, who  are  full  of  kindness  and  sensibility,  and  who  have  been 
accustomed  to  attend  to  all  the  objects  around  them,  feel  it  almost 
in  every  thing.  It  is  no  matter  what  other  people  may  think  of 
the  objects  of  their  admiration  ;  nor  ought  it  to  be  any  concern 
of  theirs  that  the  public  would  be  astonished  or  offended  if  they 
were  called  upon  to  join  in  that  admiration.  So  long  as  no  such 
call  is  made,  this  anticipated  discrepancy  of  feeling  need  give 
them  no  uneasiness  ;  and  the  suspicion  of  it  should  produce  no 
contempt  in  any  other  persons.  It  is  a  strange  aberration,  indeed, 
of  vanity,  that  makes  us  despise  persons  for  being  happjr,  for 
having  sources  of  enjoyment  in  which  we  can  not  share ;  and  yet 
this  is  the  true  source  of  the  ridicule  which  is  so  generally  poured 
upon  individuals  who  seek  only  to  enjoy  their  peculiar  tastes 
unmolested.  For,  if  there  be  any  truth  in  the  theory  we  have 
been  expounding,  no  taste  is  bad  for  any  other  reason  than 
because  it  is  peculiar ;  as  the  objects  in  which  it  delights  must 
actually  serve  to  suggest  to  the  individual  those  common  emotions 
and  universal  affections  upon  which  the  sense  of  beauty  is  every- 
where founded. 

NOTE.  —  [Whether  he  accept  the  foregoing  views  of  Beauty  or  not,  the  critical 
study  of  them  can  not  fVul  to  improve  the  pupil.  The  same  may  be  said  of  the  next 
selection,  —  "  The  Philosophy  of  Style."] 


16  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

THE   PHILOSOPHY   OF   STYLE. 

Westminster  Review,  1852. 

1.  COMMENTING    on   the    seeming   incongruity   between    his 
father's  argumentative  powers  and  his  ignorance  of  formal  logic, 
Tristram  Shandy  says,  "  It  was  a  matter  of  just  wonder  with  my 
worthy  tutor,  and  two  or  three  fellows  of  that  learned  society,  that 
a  man  who  knew  not  so  much  as  the  names  of  his  tools  should  be 
able  to  work  after  that  fashion  with  them."     Sterne's  intended 
implication,  that  a  knowledge  of  the  principles  of  reasoning  nei- 
ther makes  nor  is  essential  to  a  good  reasoner,  is  doubtless  true. 
Thus,  too,  is  it  with  grammar.     As  Dr.  Latham,  condemning  the 
usual  school-drill    in  Lindley  Murray,  rightly  remarks,   "  Gross 
vulgarity  is  a  fault  to  be  prevented  ;  but  the  proper  prevention  is 
to  be  got  from  habit,  not  rules:"  similarly  there  can  be  little  ques- 
tion that  good  composition  is  far  less  dependent  upon  acquaint- 
ance with  its  laws  than  upon  practice  and  natural  aptitude.     A 
clear  head,  a  quick  imagination,  and  a  sensitive  ear,  will  go  far 
towards  making  all  rhetorical  precepts  needless.     He  who  daily 
hears  and  reads  well-framed  sentences  will  naturally  more  or  less 
tend  to  use  similar  ones.     And  where  there  exists  tiny  mental 
idiosyncrasy,  —  where  there  is  a  deficient  verbal  memory,  or  but 
little  perception  of  order,  or  a  lack  of  constructive  ingenuity,  — 
no  amount  of  instruction  will  remedy  the  defect.     Nevertheless, 
some  practical  result  may  be  expected  from  a  familiarity  with  the 
principles  of  style.     The  endeavor  to  conform  to  rules  will  tell, 
though  slowly;    and  if  in  no  other  way,  yet  as  facilitating  re- 
vision, a  knowledge  of  the  thing  to  be  achieved  —  a  clear  idea  of 
what  constitutes  a  beauty  and  what  a  blemish  —  can  not  fail  to 
be  of  service. 

2.  No   general  theory  of  expression  seems  yet  to  have  been 
enunciated.     The  maxims  contained  in  works  on  composition  and 
rhetoric    are    presented    in  an    unorganized  form.     Standing    as 
isolated  dogmas,  as  empirical  generalizations,  they  are  neither  so 
clearly  apprehended    nor  so  much    respected  as  they    would  be 
were  they  deduced  from  some  simple  first  principle.     We  are  told 
that  "  brevity  is  the  soul  of  wit."     We  hear  styles  condemned  as 
verbose  or  involved.     Blair  says  that  every  needless  part  of  a 
sentence  "  interrupts  the  description,  and  clogs  the  image  ;  "  and 
again,  that  "long  sentences  fatigue  the  reader's  attention."     It 
is  remarked  by  Lord  Kaimes,  that,   "  to  give  the  utmost  force 
to  a  period,  it  ought,  if  possible,  to  be  closed  with  the  word  that 


THE  PHILOSOPHY   OF  STYLE.  17 

makes  the  greatest  figure."  That  parentheses  should  be  avoided, 
and  that  Saxon  words  should  be  used  in  preference  to  those  of 
Latin  origin,  are  established  precepts.  But,  however  influential 
the  truths  thus  dogmatically  embodied,  they  would  be  much  more 
influential  if  reduced  to  something  like  scientific  ordination.  In 
this,  as  in  other  cases,  conviction  will  be  greatly  strengthened 
when  we  understand  the  why.  And  we  may  be  sure  that  a  per- 
ception of  the  general  principle  of  which  the  rules  of  composi- 
tion are  partial  expressions  will  not  only  bring  them  home  to  us 
with  greater  force,  but  will  discover  to  us  other  rules  of  like 
origin. 

3.  On  seeking  for  some  clew  to  the  law  underlying  these  current 
maxims,  we  may  see  shadowed  forth  in  many  of  them  the  impor- 
tance of  economizing  the  reader's  or  hearer's  attention.     To  so 
present  ideas  that  they  may  be  apprehended  with  the  least  pos- 
sible mental  effort  is  the  desideratum  towards  which  most  of  the 
rules   above  quoted  point.     When  we  condemn  writing  that  is 
wordy  or  confused  or  intricate ;  when  we  praise  this  style  as  easy, 
and  blame  that  as  fatiguing,  —  we  consciously  or  unconsciously 
assume  this  desideratum  as  our  standard  of  judgment.     Regard- 
ing language  as  an  apparatus  of  symbols  for  the  conveyance  of 
thought,  we  may  say,  that,  as  in  a   mechanical  apparatus,  the 
more  simple  and  the  better  arranged  its  parts,  the  greater  will  be 
the  effect  produced.     In  either  case,  whatever  force  is  absorbed 
by  the  machine  is  deducted  from  the  result.     A  reader  or  listener 
has  at  each  moment  but  a  limited  amount  of  mental  power  avail- 
able.    To  recognize  and  interpret  the  symbols  presented  to  him 
requires  part  of  this  power ;  to  arrange  and  combine  the  images 
suggested  requires   a  further  part;    and   only  that   part  which 
remains  can  be  used  for  the  realization  of  the  thought  conveyed. 
Hence  the  more  time  and  attention  it  takes  to  receive  and  under- 
stand each  sentence,  the  less  time  and  attention  can  be  given  to  the 
contained  idea,  and  the  less  vividly  will  that  idea  be  conceived. 

4.  How  truly  language  must  be  regarded  as  a  hindrance  to 
thought,  though  the  necessary  instrument  of  it,  we  shall  clearly 
perceive  on  remembering  the  comparative  force  with  which  simple 
ideas  are  communicated  by  mimetic  signs.     To  say  "  Leave  the 
room"  is  less  expressive  than  to  point  to  the  door.     Placing  a 
finger   on  the  lips  is    more  forcible  than  whispering,  "  Do  not 
speak."     A  beck  of  the  hand  is  better  than  "  Come  here."     No 
phrase  can  convey  the  idea  of  surprise  so  vividly  as  opening  the 
eyes  and  raising  the  eyebrows.     A  shrug  of  the  shoulders  would 
lose  much  by  translation   into  words.     Again :    it  may  be  re- 
marked,  that,   when  oral  language  is   employed,  the    strongest 
effects  are  produced  by  interjections,  which  condense  entire  sen- 
tences into  syllables.     And  in  other  cases,  where  custom  allows 

2 


18  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

us  to  express  thoughts  by  single  words,  as  in  "  beware," 
"heigho,"  ''fudge,"  much  force  would  be  lost  by  expanding 
them  into  specific  verbal  propositions.  Hence,  carrying  out  the 
metaphor  that  language  is  the  vehicle  of  thought,  there  seems 
reason  to  think,  that,  in  all  cases,  the  friction  and  inertia  of  the 
vehicle  deduct  from  its  efficiency ;  and  that,  in  composition,  the 
chief  if  not  the  sole  thing  to  be  done  is  to  reduce  this  friction 
and  inertia  to  the  smallest  possible  amount.  Let  us,  then,  in- 
quire whether  economy  of  the  recipient's  attention  is  not  the 
secret  of  effect,  alike  in  the  right  choice  and  collocation  of  words, 
in  the  best  arrangement  of  clauses  in  a  sentence,  in  the  proper 
order  of  its  principal  and  subordinate  propositions,  in  the  judi- 
cious use  of  simile,  metaphor,  and  other  figures  of  speech,  and 
even  in  the  rhythmical  sequence  of  syllables. 

CHOICE   OF    WORDS. 

5.  The  superior  forcibleness  of  Saxon  English,  or  rather  non- 
Latin  English,  first  claims  our  attention.  The  several  special  rea- 
sons assignable  for  this  may  all  be  reduced  to  the  general  reason, 
—  ECONOMY.  The  most  important  of  them  is  early  association. 
A  child's  vocabulary  is  almost  wholly  Saxon,  He  says,  "  I  have," 
not  "  I  possess ; "  "I  wish,"  not  "  I  desire  : "  he  does  not  "  reflect," 
he  "  thinks ;  "  he  does  not  beg  for  "  amusement,"  but  for  "  play ; " 
he  calls  things  "nice "or  "nasty," not  "pleasant"  or  "disagree- 
able." The  synonyms  which  he  learns  in  after-years  never  become 
so  closely,  so  organically  connected  with  the  ideas  signified  as  do 
these  original  words  used  in  childhood ;  and  hence  the  association 
remains  less  powerful.  But  in  what  does  a  powerful  association 
between  a  word  and  an  idea  differ  from  a  weak  one  ?  Simply  in 
the  greater  ease  and  rapidity  of  the  suggestive  action.  It  can 
be  in  nothing  else.  Both  of  two  words,  if  they  be  strictly 
synonymous,  eventually  call  up  the  same  image.  The  expres- 
sion, "It  is  acid"  must,  in  the  end,  give  rise  to  the  same  thought 
as  "It  is  sour;"  but  because  the  term  "acid"  was  learnt  later 
in  life,  and  has  not  been  so  often  followed  by  the  thought 
symbolized,  it  does  not  so  readily  arouse  that  thought  as  the 
term  "sour."-.  If  we  remember  how  slowly  and  with  what  labor 
the  appropriate  ideas  follow  unfamiliar  words  in  another  lan- 
guage, and  how  increasing  familiarity  with  such  words  brings 
greater  rapidity  and  ease  of  comprehension,  until,  from  its  hav- 
ing been  a  conscious  effort  to  realize  their  meanings,  their 
meanings  ultimately  come  without  any  effort  at  all ;  and  if  we 
consider  that  the  same  process  must  have  gone  on  with  the  words 
of  our  mother-tongue  from  childhood  upwards,  —  we  shall  clearly 
see  that  the  earliest  learnt  and  oftenest  used  words  will,  other 


THE   PHILOSOPHY   OF   STYLE.  19 

tilings  equal,  call  up  images  with  less  loss  of  time  and  energy 
than  their  later  learnt  synonyms. 

6.  The  further  superiority  possessed  by  Saxon  English  in  its 
comparative  brevity  obviously  comes  under  the  same  generaliza- 
tion.   If  it  be  an  advantage  to  express  an  idea  in  the  smallest  num- 
ber of  words,  then  will  it  be  an  advantage  to  express  it  in  the 
smallest  number  of  syllables.     If  circuitous  phrases  and  needless 
expletives  distract  the  attention,  arid  diminish  the  strength  of  the 
impression  produced,  then  do  surplus  articulations  do  so.   A  certain 
effort,  though  commonly  an  inappreciable  one,  must  be  required 
to  recognize  every  vowel  and  consonant.     If,  as  we  so  commonly 
find,  the  mind  soon  becomes  fatigued  when  we  listen  to  an  indis- 
tinct or  far-removed  speaker,  or  when  we  read  a  badly-written 
manuscript ;  and  if,  as  we  can  not  doubt,  the  fatigue  is  a  cumula- 
tive result  of  the  attention  required  to  catch  successive  syllables, 
—  it  obviously  follows  that  attention  is  in  such  cases  absorbed  by 
each  syllable.     And,  if  this  be  true  when  the  syllables  are  difficult 
of  recognition,  it  will  also  be  true,  though  in  a  less  degree,  when 
the  recognition  of  them  is  easy.     Hence  the  shortness  of  Saxon 
words  becomes  a  reason  for  their  greater  force,  as  involving  a 
saving  of  the  articulations  to  be  received. 

7.  Again :  that  frequent  cause  of  strength  in  Saxon  and  other 
primitive  words  —  their  imitative  character  —  may  be  similarly 
resolved  into  the  more  general  cause.     Both  those  directly  imita- 
tive, as  splash,  bang,  whiz,  roar,  &c.,  and  those  analogically  imi- 
tative, as  rough,  smooth,  keen,  blunt,  thin,  hard,  crag,   &c.,  by 
presenting  to  the  perceptions  symbols  having  direct  resemblance 
to 'the  things  to  be  imagined,  or  some  kinship  to  them,  save  part 
of  the  effort  needed  to  call  up  the  intended  ideas,  and  leave  more 
attention  for  the  ideas  themselves. 

8.  The  economy  of  the  recipient's  mental  energy  into  which  we 
thus  find  the  several  causes  of  the  strength  of  Saxon  English 
resolvable  may  equally  be  traced  in  the  superiority  of  specific 
over  generic  words.     That  concrete  terms  produce  more  vivid  im- 
pressions than  abstract  ones,  and  should,  when  possible,  be  used 
instead,  is  a  current  maxim  of  composition.     As  Dr.  Campbell 
says,  "  The  more  general  the  terms  are,  the  picture  is  the  fainter : 
the  more  special  they  are,  the  brighter." 

We  should  avoid  such  a  sentence  as, — 

"  In  proportion  as  the  manners,  customs,  and  amusements  of  a 
nation  are  cruel  and  barbarous,  the  regulations  of  their  penal 
code  will  be  severe." 

And  in  place  of  it  we  should  write,  — 

"  In  proportion  as  men  delight  in  battles,  tourneys,  bull-fights, 
and  combats  of  gladiators,  will  they  punish  by  hanging,  behead- 
ing, burning,  and  the  rack." 


20  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

This  superiority  of  specific  expressions  is  clearly  due  to  a 
saving  of  the  effort  required  to  translate  words  into  thoughts. 
As  we  do  not  think  in  generals,  but  in  particulars ;  as,  whenever 
any  class  of  things  is  referred  to,  we  represent  it  to  ourselves  by 
calling  to  mind  individual  members  of  it,  —  it  follows,  that,  when 
an  abstract  word  is  used,  the  hearer  or  reader  has  to  choose,  from 
among  his  stock  of  images,  one  or  more  by  which  he  may  figure 
to  himself  the  genus  mentioned.  In  doing  this,  some  delay  must 
arise,  some  force  be  expended;  and  if,  by  employing  a  specific 
term,  an  appropriate  image  can  be  at  once  suggested,  an  economy 
is  achieved,  and  a  more  vivid  impression  produced. 

COLLOCATION  OF  WORDS. 

9.  Turning  now  from  the  choice  of  words  to  their  sequence,  we 
shall   find  the   same  general  principle  hold  good.     We   have,  a 
priori,  reason  for  believing  that  there  is  usually  some  one  order 
of  words  in  a  sentence  more  effective  than  every  other,  and  that 
this  order  is  the  one  which  presents  the  elements  of  the  proposi- 
tion in  the  succession  in  which  they  may  be  most  readily  put 
together.     As,  in  a  narrative,  the  events  should  be  stated  in  such 
sequence  that  the  mind  may  not  have  to  go  backwards  and  for- 
wards in  order  to  rightly  connect  them ;  as,  in  a  group  of  sen- 
tences, the  arrangement  adopted  should  be  such  that  each  of  them 
may  be  understood  as  it  conies,  without  waiting  for  subsequent 
ones :    so,  in   every  sentence,  the  sequence   of  words  should   be 
that  which  suggests  the  component  parts  of  the  thought  conveyed, 
in  the  order  most  convenient  for  the  building  up  that  thought. 
To  duly  enforce  this  truth,  and  to  prepare  the  way  for  applica- 
tions of  it,  we  must  briefly  inquire  into  the  mental  process  by 
which  the  meaning  of  a  series  of  words  is  apprehended. 

10.  We  can  not  more  simply  do  this  than  by  considering  the 
proper  collocation  of  the  substantive  and  adjective.     Is  it  better  to 
place  the  adjective  before  the  substantive,  or  the  substantive  before 
the  adjective  ?      Ought  we  to  say,  with  the  French,  "  Un  cheval 
Hoi,-  "  ?  or  to  say,  as  we  do,  "  A  black  horse  "  ?    Probably  most  per- 
sons of  culture  would  decide  that  one  order  is  as  good  as  the  other. 
Alive  to  the  bias  produced  by  habit,  they  would  ascribe  to  that 
the  preference  they  feel  for  our  own  form  of  expression.     They 
would  suspect  those  educated  in  the  use  of  the  opposite  form  of 
having  an  equal  preference  for  that.     And  thus  they  would  con- 
clude that  neither  of  these  instinctive  judgments  is  of  any  worth. 
There  is,  however,  a  philosophical  ground  for  deciding  in  favor  of 
the   English   custom.     If  "  a  horse  black "  be  the   arrangement 
used,  immediately  on  the  utterance  of  the  word  "horse,"  there 
arises,  or  tends  to  arise,  in  the  mind,  a  picture  answering  to  that 


THE   PHILOSOPHY   OF   STYLE.  21 

word ;  and,  as  there  has  been  nothing  to  indicate  what  kind  of 
horse,  any  image  of  a  horse  suggests  itself.  Very  likely,  how- 
ever, the  image  will  be  that  of  a  brown  horse  ;  brown  horses 
being  equally  or  more  familiar.  The  result  is,  that,  when  the 
word  "  black  "  is  added,  a  check  is  given  to  the  process  of  thought. 
Either  the  picture  of  a  brown  horse  already  present  in  the  imagi- 
nation has  to  be  suppressed,  and  the  picture  of  a  black  one 
summoned  in  its  place ;  or  else,  if  the  picture  of  a  brown  horse 
be  yet  unformed,  the  tendency  to  form  it  has  to  be  stopped. 
Whichever  be  the  case,  a  certain  amount  of  hindrance  results. 
But  if,  on  the  other  hand,  "  a  black  horse  "  be  the  expression 
used,  no  such  mistake  can  be  made.  The  word  "  black," 
indicating  an  abstract  quality,  arouses  no  definite  idea.  It 
simply  prepares  the  mind  for  conceiving  some  object  of  that 
color;  and  the  attention  is  kept  suspended  until  that  object  is 
known.  If,  then,  by  the  precedence  of  the  adjective,  the  idea  is 
conveyed  without  the  possibility  of  error,  whereas  the  precedence 
of  the  substantive  is  liable  to  produce  a. misconception,  it  follows 
that  the  one  gives  the  mind  less  trouble  than  the  other,  and  is, 
therefore,  more  forcible. 

11.  Possibly  it  will  be  objected  that  the  adjective  and  substantive 
come  so  close  together,  that,  practically,  they  may  be  considered 
as  uttered  at  the  same  moment ;  and  that,  on  hearing  the  phrase, 
"  A  horse  black,"  there  is  not  time  to  imagine  a  wrongly-colored 
horse  before  the  word  "  black  "  follows  to  prevent  it.  It  must  be 
owned  that  it  is  not  easy  to  decide  by  introspection  whether  this 
be  so  or  not.  But  there  are  facts  collaterally  implying  that  it  is 
not.  Our  ability  to  anticipate  the  words  yet  unspoken  is  one  of 
them.  If  the  ideas  of  the  hearer  kept  considerably  behind  the 
expressions  of  the  speaker,  as  the  objection  assumes,  he  could 
hardly  foresee  the  end  of  a  sentence  by  the  time  it  was  half  de- 
livered ;  yet  this  constantly  happens.  Were  the  supposition  true, 
the  mind,  instead  of  anticipating,  would  be  continually  falling 
more  and  more,  in  arrear.  If  the  meanings  of  words  are  not 
realized  as  fast  as  the  words  are  uttered,  then  the  loss  of  time 
over  each  word  must  entail  such  an  accumulation  of  delays  as  to 
leave  a  hearer  entirely  behind.  But,  whether  the  force  of  these 
replies  be  or  be  not  admitted,  it  will  scarcely  be  denied  that  the 
right  formation  of  a  picture  will  be  facilitated  by  presenting  its 
elements  in  the  order  in  which  they  are  wanted ;  and  that,  as  in 
forming  the  image  answering  to  a  red  flower  the  notion  of  red- 
ness is  one  of  the  components  that  must  be  used  in  the  construc- 
tion of  the  image,  the  mind,  if  put  in  possession  of  this  notion 
before  the  specific  image  to  be  formed  out  of  it  is  suggested,  will 
more  easily  form  it  than  if  the  order  be  reversed,  even  though  it 
should  do  nothing  until  it  has  received  both  symbols. 


22  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

What  is  here  said  respecting  the  succession  of  the  adjective 
and  substantive  is  obviously  applicable,  by  change  of  terms,  to 
the  adverb  and  verb.  And,  without  further  explanation,  it  will 
be  at  once  perceived,  that,  in  the  use.  of  prepositions  and  other 
particles,  most  languages  spontaneously  conform,  with  more  or  less 
completeness,  to  this  law. 

ARRANGEMENT    OF     CLAUSES. 

12.  On  applying  a  like  analysis  to  the  larger  divisions  of  a 
sentence,  we  find  not  only  that  the  same  principle  holds  good, 
but  that  the  advantage  respecting  it  becomes  marked.     In  the 
arrangement  of  predicate  and  subject,  for  example,  we  are  at  once 
shown,  that,  as  the  predicate  determines  the  aspect  under  which 
the  subject  is  to  be  conceived,  it  should  be  placed  first ;  and  the 
striking  effect  produced  by  so  placing  it  becomes  comprehensible. 
Take  the  often-quoted  contrast  between  "  Great  is  Diana  of  the 
Ephesians  "  and  "  Diana  of  the  Ephesians  is  great."     When  the 
first  arrangement  is  used,  the  utterance  of  the  word  "  great " 
arouses  those  vague  associations  of  an  impressive   nature  with 
which  it  has  been  habitually  connected; -the  imagination  is  pre- 
pared to  clothe  with  high  attributes  whatever  follows :  and  when 
the  words,  "Diana  of  the  Ephesians,"  are  heard,  all  the  appro- 
priate imagery  which  can  on  the  instant  be  summoned  is  used  in 
the  formation  of  the  picture ;  the  mind  being  thus  led  directly, 
and  without  error,  to  the  intended  impression.     When,  on  the 
contrary,  the  reverse  order  is  followed,  the  idea,  "  Diana  of  the 
Ephesians,"  is  conceived  in  any  ordinary  way,  with  no  special 
reference  to  greatness  ;  and,  when  the  words  "  is  great "  are  added, 
the    conception    has  to  be  entirely  remodeled :   whence  arises  a 
manifest  loss  of  mental  energy,  and  a  corresponding  diminution 
of  effect.     The  following  verse  from  Coleridge's  "  Ancient  Mari- 
ner," though  somewhat  irregular  in  structure,  well  illustrates  the 
same  truth :  — 

"  Alone,  alone,  all,  all  alone, 

Alone  on  a  ici'Ie,  wide  sen! 
And  never  a  saint  took  pity  on 
My  soul  in  agony." 

13.  Of  course,  the  principle  equally  applies  when  the  predicate  ig 
a  verb  or  a  participle.     And  as  effect  is  gained  by  placing  first  all 
words  indicating  the  quality,  conduct,  or  condition  of  the  subject, 
it  follows  that  the  copula   also  should   have   precedence.     It  is 
true,  that  the  general  habit  of  our  language  resists  this  arrange- 
ment of  predicate,  copula,  and  subject ;  but  we  may  readily  find 
instances  of  the   additional  force   gained  by  conforming  to  it. 
Thus  in  the  line  from  "  Julius  Caesar,"  — 

"  Then  burst  this  mighty  heart,"  — 


THE  PHILOSOPHY   OF   STYLE.  23 

priority  is  given  to  a  word  embodying  both  predicate  and  copula. 
In  a  passage  contained  in  "  The  Battle  of  Flodden  Field,"  the 
like  order  is  systematically  employed  with  great  effect :  — 

"  The  Border  slogan  rent  the  sky ! 
1A  Home  !  a  Gordon! '  ions  the  cry; 

Loud  were  the  clanging  blows: 
Advanced,  forced  back,  nt>w  low,  now  high, 

The  pennon  sunk  and  rose. 
As  bends  the  bark's  mast  in  the  gale, 
When  rent  are  rigging,  shrouds,  and  sail, 

It  wavered  'mid  the  foes." 

14.  Pursuing  the  principle  yet  further,  it  is  obvious,  that,  for 
producing  the  greatest  effect,  not  only  should  the  main  divisions 
of  a  sentence  observe  this  sequence,  but  the  subdivisions  of  these 
should  be  similarly  arranged.  In  nearly  all  cases,  the  predicate 
is  accompanied  by  some  limit  or  qualification,  called  its  comple- 
ment :  commonly,  also,  the  circumstances  of  the  subject  which 
form  its  complement  have  to  be  specified ;  and,  as  these  qualifi- 
cations and  circumstances  must  determine  the  mode  in  which  the 
ideas  they  belong  to  shall  be  conceived,  precedence  should  be 
given  to  them.  Lord  Kaimes  notices  the  fact,  that  this  order  is 
preferable,  though  without  giving  the  reason.  He  says,  "  When 
a  circumstance  is  placed  at  the  beginning  of  the  period,  or  near 
the  beginning,  the  transition  from  it  to  the  principal  subject  is 
agreeable,  —  is  like  ascending  or  going  upwards."  A  sentence 
arranged  in  illustration  of  this  may  be  desirable.  Perhaps  the 
following  will  serve  :  — 

"  Whatever  it  may  be  in  theory,  it  is  clear,  that,  in  practice, 
the  French  idea  of  liberty  is,  —  the  right  of  every  man  to  be 
master  of  the  rest." 

In  this  case,  were  the  first  two  clauses,  up  to  the  word 
"  practice  "  inclusive,  which  qualify  the  subject,  to  be  placed  at 
the  end  instead  of  the  beginning,  much  of  the  force  would  be  lost ; 
as  thus  :  — 

"  The  French  idea  of  liberty  is,  —  the  right  of  every  man  to  be 
master  of  the  rest,  in  practice  at  least,  if  not  in  theory." 

The  effect  of  giving  priority  to  the  complement  of  the  pr&di- 
cate,  as  well  as  the  predicate  itself,  is  finely  displayed  in  the 
opening  of  "  Hyperion  :  "  — 

"  Deep  in  the  shady  sndness  of  a  vale. 
Far-sunken  from  fhe  healthy  breath  of  morn, 
Far  from  tne  Jiery  noon  and  eve's  one  star, 
Sat  gray-haired  Saturn,  quiet  as  a  stone." 

Here  it  will  be  observed,  not  only  that  the  predicate  "  sat "  pre- 
cedes the  subject  "Saturn,"  and  that  the  three  lines  in  Italics, 


24  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

constituting  the  complement  of  the  predicate,  come  before  it,  but 
that,  in  the  structure  of  that  complement  also,  the  same  order  is 
followed ;  each  line  being  so  arranged  that  the  qualifying  words 
are  placed  before  the  words  suggesting  concrete  images. 

SUCCESSION    OF  PROPOSITIONS. 

15.  The  right  succession  of  the  principal  and  subordinate  prop- 
ositions in  a  sentence  will  manifestly  be  regulated  by  the  same  law. 
Regard  for  economy  of  the  recipient's  attention,  which,   as   we 
find,  determines  the  best  order  for  the  subject,  copula,  predicate, 
and  their  complements,  dictates  that  the  subordinate  proposition 
shall  precede  the  principal  one  when  the  sentence  includes  two. 
Containing,  as  the  subordinate  proposition  does,  some  qualifying 
or  explanatory  idea,  its  priority  must  clearfy  prevent  misconcep- 
tion of  the  principal  one,  and  must  therefore  save   the   mental 
effort  needed  to  correct  such  misconception.     This  will  be  clearly 
seen  in  the  annexed  example  :  — 

"  Those  who  weekly  go  to  church,  and  there  have  doled  out  to 
them  a  quantum  of  belief  which  the}'  have  not  energy  to  work  out 
for  themselves,  are  simply  spiritual  paupers." 

The  subordinate  proposition,  or  rather  the  two  subordinate 
propositions,  contained  between  the  first  and  second  commas  in 
this  sentence,  almost  wholly  determine  the  meaning  of  the 
principal  proposition  with  which  it  ends ;  and  the  effect  would  be 
destroyed  were  they  placed  last  instead  of  first. 

16.  The  general  principle  of  right  arrangement  in  sentences, 
which  we  have  traced  in  its  application  to  the  leading  divisions  of 
them,  equally  determines  the  normal  order  of  their  minor  divisions. 
The  several  clauses  of  which  the  complements  to  the  subject  and 
predicate  generally  consist  may  conform  more  or  less  completely 
to  the  law  of  easy  apprehension.     Of  course,  with  these,  as  with 
the  larger  members,  the  succession  should  be  from  the  abstract  to 
the  concrete. 

Now,  however,  we  must  notice  a  further  condition  to  be  ful- 
filled in  the  proper  combination  of  the  elements  of  a  sentence, 
but  still  a  condition  dictated  by  the  same  general  principle  with 
the  other;  the  condition,  namely,  that  the  words  and  expressions 
most  nearly  related  in  thought  shall  be  brought  the  closest 
together.  Evidently  the  single  words,  the  minor  clauses,  and  the 
leading  divisions,  of  every  proposition,  severally  qualify  each 
other.  The  longer  the  time  that  elapses  between  the  mention  of 
any  qualifying  member  and  the  member  qualified,  the  longer 
must  the  mind  be  exerted  in  carrying  forward  the  qualifying 
member  ready  for  use;  and,  the  more  numerous  the  qualifica- 
tions to  be  simultaneously  remembered  and  rightly  applied,  the 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  STYLE.  25 

greater  will  be  the  mental  power  expended,  and  the  smaller  the 
effect  produced.  Hence,  other  things  equal,  force  will  be  gained 
by  so  arranging  the  members  of  a  sentence  that  these  suspensions 
shall  at  any  moment  be  the  fewest  in  number,  and  shall  also  be 
of  the  shortest  duration.  The  following  is  an  instance  of  defec- 
tive combination :  — 

"  A  modern  newspaper-statement,  though  probably  true,  would 
be  laughed  at  if  quoted  in  a  book  as  testimony ;  but  the  letter  of 
a  court-gossip  is  thought  good  historical  evidence,  if  written  some 
centuries  ago." 

A  re-arrangement  of  this,  in  accordance  with  the  principle 
indicated  above,  will  be  found  to  increase  the  effect.  Thus :  — 

"  Though  probably  true,  a  modern  newspaper-statement  quoted 
in  a  book  Us  testimony  would  be  laughed  at ;  but  the  letter  of  a 
court-gossip,  if  written  some  centuries  ago,  is  thought  good 
historical  evidence." 

By  making  this  change,  some  of  the  suspensions  are  avoided, 
and  others  shortened;  whilst  there  is  less  liability  to  produce 
premature  conceptions.  The  passage  quoted  below  from  "  Para- 
dise Lost "  affords  a  fine  instance  of  sentences  well  arranged, 
alike  in  the  priority  of  the  subordinate  members,  in  the  avoidance 
of  long  and  numerous  suspensions,  and  in  the  correspondence 
between  the  order  of  the  clauses  and  the  sequence  of  the  phe- 
nomena described ;  which,  by  the  way,  is  a  further  prerequisite  to 
easy  comprehension,  and  therefore  to  effect :  — 

"  As  when  a  prowling  wolf, 
Whom  hunger  drives  to  seek  new  haunt  for  prey, 
Watching  where  shepherds  pen  their  flocks  at  eve 
In  hurdled  cotes  amid  the  field  secure, 
Leaps  o'er  the  fence  with  ease  into  the  fold; 
Or  as  a  thief  bent  to  unhoard  the  cash 
Of  some  rich  burgher,  whose  substantial  doors, 
Cross-barred  and  bolted  fast,  fear  no  assault, 
In  at  the  window  climbs,  or  o'er  the  tiles: 
So  clomb  the  first  grand  thief  into  God's  fold; 
So  since  into  his  Church  lewd  hirelings  climb." 

17.  The  habitual  use  of  sentences  in  which  all  or  most  of  the 
'descriptive   and  limiting  elements  precede  those  described  and 
limited  gives  rise  to  what  is  called  the  inverted  style,  —  a  title 
which  is,  however,  by  no  means  confined  to  this  structure,  but  is 
often  used  where  the  order  of  the  words  is  simply  unusual.     A 
more  appropriate  title  would  be  the  "  direct  style  : "  as  contrasted 
with  the  other,  or  "indirect  style:"  the  peculiarity  of  the  one 
being,  that  it  conveys  each  thought  into  the  mind  step  by  step, 
with  little  liability  to  error ;  and  of  the  other,  that  it  gets  the  right 
thought  conceived  by  a  series  of  approximations. 

18.  The  superiority  of  the  direct  over  the  indirect  form  of  sen- 


26  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

tence,  implied  by  the  several  conclusions  that  have  been  drawn, 
must  not,  however,  be  affirmed  without  limitation.  Though  up  to 
a  certain  point  it  is  well  for  all  the  qualifying  clauses  of  a  period  to 
precede  those  qualified,  yet,  as  carrying  forward  each  qualifying 
clause  costs  some  mental  effort,  it  follows,  that,  when  the  number 
of  them  and  the  time  they  are  carried  become  great,  we  reach  a 
limit  beyond  which  more  is  lost  than  is  gained.  Other  things 
equal,  the  arrangement  should  be  such,  that  no  concrete  image 
shall  be  suggested  until  the  materials  out  of  which  it  is  to  be 
made  have  been  presented.  And  yet,  as  lately  pointed  out,  other 
things  equal,  the  fewer  the  materials  to  be  held  at  once,  and  the 
shorter  the  distance  they  have  to  be  borne,  the  better.  Hence  in 
some  cases  it  becomes  a  question,  whether  most  mental  effort  will 
be  entailed  by  the  many  and  long  suspensions,  or  by  the  correction 
of  successive  misconceptions. 

19.  This  question  may  sometimes  be  decided  by  considering  the 
capacity  of  the  persons  addressed.     A  greater  grasp  of  mind  is 
required  for  the  ready  comprehension  of  thoughts  expressed  in 
the  direct  manner,  where  the  sentences  are  anywise  intricate. 
To  recollect  a  number  of  preliminaries  stated  in  elucidation  of  a 
coming  image,  and  to  apply  them  all  to  the  formation  of  it  when 
suggested,  demands  a  considerable  power  of  concentration,  and  a 
tolerably  vigorous    imagination.     To  one  possessing    these,  the 
direct  method  will  mostly  seem  the  best ;  whilst  to  one  deficient 
in  them  it  will  seem  the  worst.     Just  as  it  may  cost  a  strong  man 
less  effort  to  carry  a  hundred-weight  from  place  to  place  at  once 
than  by  a  stone  at  a  time ;   so  to  an  active  mind  it  may  be  easier 
to  bear  along  all  the  qualifications  of  an  idea,  and  at  once  rightly 
form  it  when  named,  than  to  first  imperfectly  conceive  such  idea, 
and  then  carry  back  to  it,  one  by  one,  the  details  and  limitations 
afterwards  mentioned.     Whilst,  conversely,  as  for  a  boy  the  only 
possible  mode  of  transferring  a  hundred- weight  is  that  of  taking 
it  in  portions ;  so,  for  a  weak  mind,  the  only  possible  mode  of 
forming  a  compound  conception  may  be  that  of  building  it  up  by 
carrying  separately  its  several  parts. 

20.  That  the  indirect  method  —  the  method  of  conveying  the 
meaning  by  a  series  of  approximations — is  best  fitted  for  the 
uncultivated,  may  indeed    be  inferred  from   their  habitual  use 
of  it.     The   form  of  expression  adopted   by   the  savage,  as   in 
"Water  —  give  me,"  is  the  simplest  type  of  the  approximative 
arrangement.     In  pleonasms,  which  are  comparatively  prevalent 
among  the  uneducated,  the  same  essential  structure  is  seen ;  as, 
for  instance,  in  "  The  men,  they  were  there."     Again :  the  old 
possessive  case,  "The  king,  his  crown,"  conforms  to  the  like  order 
of  thought.     Moreover,  the  fact  that  the  indirect  mode  is  called 


THE  PHILOSOPHY   OF  STYLE.  27 

the  natural  one  implies  that  it  is  the  one  spontaneously  employed 
by  the  common  people  ;  that  is,  the  one  easiest  for  undisciplined 
minds. 

21.  Before  dismissing  this  branch  of  our  subject,  it  should  be 
remarked,  that,  even  when  addressing  the  most  vigorous  intellects, 
the  direct  style  is  unfit  for  communicating  thoughts  of  a  complex 
or  abstract  character.     So  long  as  the  mind  has  not  much  to  do, 
it  may  be  well  able  to  grasp  all  the  preparatory  clauses  of  a  sen- 
tence, and  to  use  them  effectively ;  but  if  some  subtlety  in  the 
argument  absorb  the  attention,  if  every  faculty  be   strained  in 
endeavoring  to  catch  the  speaker's  or  writer's  drift,  it  may  hap- 
pen that  the  mind,  unable  to  carry  on   both  processes  at  once, 
will  break  down,  and  allow  all  its  ideas  to  lapse  into  confusion. 

FIGURES    OF    SPEECH. 

22.  Turning  now  to  consider  figures  of  speech,  we  may  equally 
discern  the  same  general  law  of  effect.     Underlying  all  the  rules 
that  may  be  given  for  the  choice  and  right  use  of  them,  we  shall 
find  the  same  fundamental  requirement,  —  economy  of  attention. 
It  is  indeed  chiefly  because  of  their  great  ability  to  subserve  this 
requirement  that  figures  of  speech  are  employed.     To  bring  the 
mind   more  easily  to  the  desired  conception,  is  in  many  cases 
solely,  and  in  all  cases  mainly,  their  object. 

23.  Let  us  begin  with  the  figure  called  Synecdoche.     The  ad- 
vantage sometimes  gained  by  putting  a  part  for  the  whole  is  due 
to  the  more  convenient  or  more  accurate  presentation  of  the  idea 
thus  secured.     If,  instead  of  saying,  "  A  fleet  of  ten  ships,"  we 
say,  "  A  fleet  of  ten  sail"  the  picture  of  a  group  of  vessels  at  sea 
is  more  readily  suggested,  and  is  so  because  the  sails  constitute 
the  most  conspicuous  part  of  vessels  so  circumstanced ;  whereas 
the  word  "ships"  would  very  likely  remind  us  of  vessels  in  dock. 
Again,  to  say,  "All  hands  to  the  pumps!  "  is  better  than  to  say, 
"  All  men  to  the  pumps  !  "  as  it  suggests  the  men  in  the  special 
attitude  intended,  and  so  saves  effort.     Bringing  "  gray  hairs 
with  sorrow  to  the  grave"  is  another  expression,  the  effect  of 
which  has  the  same  cause. 

24.  The  occasional  increase  of  force  produced  by  Metonymy  may 
be  similarly  accounted  for.     "The  low  morality  of  the  bar"  is  a 
phrase  both  briefer  and  more  significant  than  the  literal  one  it 
stands  for.     A  belief  in  the  ultimate  supremacy  of  intelligence 
over  brute  force  is  conveyed  in  a  more  concrete,  and  therefore 
more   realizable   form,    if   we    substitute   "  the   pen "   and   "  the 
sword  "  for  the  two  abstract  terms.     To  say,  "  Beware  of  drink- 
ing!" is  less  effective  than  to  say  "Beware  the  bottle!"  and  is 
so,  clearly,  because  it  calls  up  a  less  specific  image. 


28  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

25.  The  Simile,  though  in  many  cases  employed  chiefly  with  a 
view  to  ornament,  yet,  whenever  it  increases  the  force  of  a  pas- 
sage, does  so  by  being  an  economy.     Here  is  an  instance  :  — 

"  The  illusion,  that  great  men  and  great  events  came  oftener  in 
early  times  than  now,  is  partly  due  to  historical  perspective.  As, 
in  a  range  of  equidistant  columns,  the  farthest  off  look  the 
closest,  so  the  conspicuous  objects  of  the  past  seem  more  thickly 
clustered  the  more  remote  they  are." 

To  construct,  by  a  process  of  literal  explanation,  the  thought 
thus  conveyed,  would  take  many  sentences;  and  the  first  ele- 
ments of  the  picture  would  become  faint  whilst  the  imagination 
was  busy  in  adding  the  others.  But,  by  the  help  of  a  compari- 
son, all  effort  is  saved :  the  picture  is  instantly  realized,  and  its 
full  effect  produced. 

26.  Of  the  position  of  the  Simile,*  it  needs  only  to  remark,  that 
what  has  been  said  respecting  the  order  of  the  adjective  and  sub- 
stantive, predicate  and  subject,  principal  and  subordinate  proposi- 
tions,   &c.,   is    applicable    here.      As    whatever   qualifies   should 
precede  whatever  is  qualified,  force  will  generally  be  gained  by 
placing  the  simile  before  the  object  to  which  it  is  applied.     That 
this  arrangement  is  the  best,  may  be  seen  in  the  following  pas- 
sage from  "  The  Lady  of  the  Lake : "  — 

"As  wreath  of  snow,  on  mountain  breast, 
Slides  from  the  rock  that  gave  it  rest, 
Poor  Ellen  glided  from  her  stay, 
And  at  the  monarch's  feet  she  lay." 

Inverting  these  couplets  will  be  found  to  diminish  the  effect  con- 
siderably. There  are  cases,  however,  even  where  the  simile  is  a 
simple  one,  in  which  it  may  with  advantage  be  placed  last ;  as  in 
these  lines  from  Alexander  Smith's  "  Life  Drama :  " . — 

"  I  see  the  future  stretch 
All  dark  and  barren  as  a  rainy  sea." 

The  reason  for  this  seems  to  be,  that  so  abstract  an  idea  as 
that  attaching  to  the  "future"  does  not  present  itself  to  the 
mind  in  any  definite  form  ;  and  hence  the  subsequent  arrival  at 
the  simile  entails  no  reconstruction  of  the  thought. 

27.  Nor  are  such  the  only  cases  in  which  this  order  is  the  most 
forcible.     As   the    advantage  of  putting   the  simile  before    the 
object  depends  on  its  being  carried  forward  in  the  mind  to  assist 
in  forming  an  image  of  the  object,  it  must  happen,  that  if,  from 
length  or  complexity,  it  can  not  be  so  carried  forward,  the  advan- 

*  Properly  the  term  "  simile  "  is  applicable  only  to  the  entire  figure,  inclusive  of  the 
two  things  compared  and  the  comparison  drawn  between  them.  But,  as  there  exists  no 
name  for  the  illustrative  member  of  the  figure,  there  seems  no  alternative  but  to 
employ  "  simile  "  to  express  this  also.  The  context  will  in  each  case  show  in  which 
sense  the  word  is  used. 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF   STYLE.  29 

tage  is  not  gained.  The  annexed  sonnet  by  Coleridge  is  defec- 
tive from  this  cause  :  — 

"  As  when  a  child,  on  some  long  winter's  night, 
Affrighted,  clinging  to  its  grandam's  knees 
With  eager  wondering  and  perturbed  delight 
Listens  strange  tales  of  fearful,  dark  decrees, 
Muttered  to  wretch  by  necromantic  spell; 
Or  of  those  hags  who  at  the  witching  time 
Of  murky  midnight  ride  the  air  sublime, 
And  mingle  foul  embrace  with  fiends  of  hell; 
Cold  horror  drinks  its  blood !  anon  the  tear 
More  gentle  starts  to  hear  the  beldam  tell 
Of  pretty  babes  that  loved  each  other  dear, 
Murdered  by  cruel  uncle's  mandate  fell: 
Even  such  the  shivering  joys  thy  tones  impart; 
Even  so,  thou,  Siddons,  meitest  my  sad  heart." 

Here,  from  the  lapse  of  time  and  accumulation  of  circum- 
stances, the  first  part  of  the  comparison  becomes  more  or  less  dim 
before  its  application  is  reached,  and  requires  re-reading.  Had 
the  main  idea  been  first  mentioned,  less  effort  would  have  been 
required  to  retain  it,  and  to  modify  the  conception  of  it  in  con- 
formity with  the  comparison,  than  to  retain  the  comparison,  and 
refer  back  to  the  recollection  of  its  successive  features  for  help  in 
forming  the  final  image. 

28.  The  superiority  of  the  Metaphor  to  the  Simile  is  ascribed  by 
Dr.  Whately  to  the  fact  that  "all  men   are  more   gratified  at 
catching   the   resemblance   for   themselves    than    in    having   it 
pointed  out  to  them."     But,  after  what  has  been  said,  the  great 
economy  it  achieves  will   seem   the   more  probable  cause.     If, 
drawing  an  analog}7  between  mental  and  physical  phenomena,  we 
say,  "  As,  in  passing  through  the  crystal,  beams  of  white  light 
are  decomposed  into  the  colors  of  the  rainbow;  so,  in  traversing 
the  soul  of  the  poet,  the  colorless  rays  of  truth  are   transformed 
into  brightly-tinted   poetry,"  it  is  clear,  that,  in  receiving  the 
double  set  of  words  expressing  the  two  portions  of  the  compari- 
son, and  in  carrying  the  one  portion  to  the  other,  a  considerable 
amount  of  attention  is  absorbed.     Most  of  this  is  saved,  however, 
by  putting  the  comparison  in  a  metaphorical  form,  thus :  — 

"  The  white  light  of  truth,  in  traversing  the  many-sided, 
transparent  soul  of  the  poet,  is  refracted  into  iris-hued  poetry." 

29.  How  much  is  conveyed  in  a  few  words  by  the  help  of  the 
Metaphor,  and  how  vivid  the  effect  consequently  produced,  may 
be    abundantly   exemplified.     From   "A  Life  Drama"  may  be 
quoted  the  phrase,  — 

"  I  speared  him  with  a  jest," 

as  a  fine  instance  among  the  many  which  that  poem  contains. 
A  passage  in  the  "  Prometheus  Unbound  "  of  Shelley  displays 
the  power  of  the  Metaphor  to  great  advantage  :  — 


28  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

25.  The  Simile,  though  in  many  cases  employed  chiefly  with  a 
view  to  ornament,  yet,  whenever  it  increases  the  force  of  a  pas- 
sage, does  so  by  being  an  economy.     Here  is  an  instance :  — 

"  The  illusion,  that  great  men  and  great  events  came  oftener  in 
early  times  than  now,  is  partly  due  to  historical  perspective.  As, 
in  a  range  of  equidistant  columns,  the  farthest  off  look  the 
closest,  so  the  conspicuous  objects  of  the  past  seem  more  thickly 
clustered  the  more  remote  they  are." 

To  construct,  by  a  process  of  literal  explanation,  the  thought 
thus  conveyed,  would  take  many  sentences;  and  the  first  ele- 
ments of  the  picture  would  become  faint  whilst  the  imagination 
was  busy  in  adding  the  others.  But,  by  the  help  of  a  compari- 
son, all  effort  is  saved :  the  picture  is  instantly  realized,  and  its 
full  effect  produced. 

26.  Of  the  position  of  the  Simile,*  it  needs  only  to  remark,  that 
what  has  been  said  respecting  the  order  of  the  adjective  and  sub- 
stantive, predicate  and  subject,  principal  and  subordinate  proposi- 
tions,   &c.,   is   applicable    here.      As    whatever   qualifies   should 
precede  whatever  is  qualified,  force  will  generally  be  gained  by 
placing  the  simile  before  the  object  to  which  it  is  applied.     That 
this  arrangement  is  the  best,  may  be  seen  in  the  following  pas- 
sage from  "The  Lady  of  the  Lake : "  — 

"As  wreath  of  snow,  on  mountain  breast, 
Slides  from  the  rock  that  gave  it  rest, 
Poor  Ellen  glided  from  her  stay, 
And  at  the  monarch's  feet  she'lay." 

Inverting  these  couplets  will  be  found  to  diminish  the  effect  con- 
siderably. There  are  cases,  however,  even  where  the  simile  is  a 
simple  one,  in  which  it  may  with  advantage  be  placed  last ;  as  in 
these  lines  from  Alexander  Smith's  "  Life  Drama  :  "  - — 

"  I  see  the  future  stretch 
All  dark  and  barren  as  a  rainy  sea." 

The  reason  for  this  seems  to  be,  that  so  abstract  an  idea  as 
that  attaching  to  the  "future"  does  not  present  itself  to  the 
mind  in  any  definite  form  ;  and  hence  the  subsequent  arrival  at 
the  simile  entails  no  reconstruction  of  the  thought. 

27.  Nor  are  such  the  only  cases  in  which  this  order  is  the  most 
forcible.     As   the   advantage   of  putting   the  simile  before    the 
object  depends  on  its  being  carried  forward  in  the  mind  to  assist 
in  forming  an  image  of  the  object,  it  must  happen,  that  if,  from 
length  or  complexity,  it  can  not  be  so  carried  forward,  the  advan- 

*  Properly  the  term  "  simile  "  is  applicable  only  to  the  entire  figure,  inclusive  of  the 
two  things  compared  and  the  comparison  drawn  between  them.  But,  as  there  exists  no 
name  for  the  illustrative  member  of  the  figure,  there  seems  no  alternative  but  to 
employ  "  simile  "  to  express  this  also.  The  context  will  in  each  case  show  in  which 
sense  the  word  is  used. 


THE   PHILOSOPHY  OF   STYLE.  29 

tage  is  not  gained.  The  annexed  sonnet  by  Coleridge  is  defec- 
tive from  this  cause  :  — 

"  As  when  a  child,  on  some  long  winter's  night, 
Affrighted,  clinging  to  its  grandam's  knees 
With  eager  wondering  and  perturbed  delight 
Listens  strange  tales  of  fearful,  dark  decrees, 
Muttered  to  wretch  by  necromantic  spell; 
Or  of  those  hags  who  at  the  witching  time 
Of  murky  midnight  ride  the  air  sublime, 
And  mingle  foul  embrace  with  fiends  of  hell; 
Cold  horror  drinks  its  blood !  anon  the  tear 
More  gentle  starts  to  hear  the  beldam  tell 
Of  pretty  babes  that  loved  each  other  dear, 
Murdered  by  cruel  uncle's  mandate  fell: 
Even  such  the  shivering  joys  thy  tones  impart; 
Even  so,  thou,  Siddons,  meltest  my  sad  heart." 

Here,  from  the  lapse  of  time  and  accumulation  of  circum- 
stances, the  first  part  of  the  comparison  becomes  more  or  less  dim 
before  its  application  is  reached,  and  requires  re-reading.  Had 
the  main  idea  been  first  mentioned,  less  effort  would  have  been 
required  to  retain  it,  and  to  modify  the  conception  of  it  in  con- 
formity witli  the  comparison,  than  to  retain  the  comparison,  and 
refer  back  to  the  recollection  of  its  successive  features  for  help  in 
forming  the  final  image. 

28.  The  superiority  of  the  Metaphor  to  the  Simile  is  ascribed  by 
Dr.  Whately  to  the  fact  that  "  all  men   are  more   gratified   at 
catching   the   resemblance   for   themselves    than    in    having   it 
pointed  out  to  them."     But,  after  what  has  been  said,  the  great 
economy  it  achieves  will   seem   the    more  probable  cause.     If, 
drawing  an  analogy  between  mental  and  physical  phenomena,  we 
say,  "  As,  in  passing  through  the  crystal,  beams  of  white  light 
are  decomposed  into  the  colors  of  the  rainbow ;  so,  in  traversing 
the  soul  of  the  poet,  the  colorless  rays  of  truth  are   transformed 
into  brightly-tinted   poetry,"  it  is  clear,  that,  in  receiving  the 
double  set  of  words  expressing  the  two  portions  of  the  compari- 
son, and  in  carrying  the  one  portion  to  the  other,  a  considerable 
amount  of  attention  is  absorbed.     Most  of  this  is  saved,  however, 
by  putting  the  comparison  in  a  metaphorical  form,  thus :  — 

"  The  white  light  of  truth,  in  traversing  the  many-sided, 
transparent  soul  of  the  poet,  is  refracted  into  iris-hued  poetry." 

29.  How  much  is  conveyed  in  a  few  words  by  the  help  of  the 
Metaphor,  and  how  vivid  the  effect  consequently  produced,  may 
be    abundantly   exemplified.     From   "A  Life  Drama"  may  be 
quoted  the  phrase,  — 

"I  speared  him  with  a  jest," 

as  a  fine  instance  among  the  many  which  that  poem  contains. 
A  passage  in  the  "  Prometheus  Unbound  "  of  Shelley  displays 
the  power  of  the  Metaphor  to  great  advantage :  — 


32  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

nobility  is  '  not  transferable/  "  besides  the  one  idea  expressed, 
several  are  implied ;  and,  as  these  can  be  thought  much  sooner 
than  they  can  be  put  in  words,  there  is  gain  in  omitting  them. 
How  the  mind  may  be  lad  to  construct  a  complete  picture  by  the 
presentation  of  a  few  parts,  an  extract  from  Tennyson's  "  Mari- 
ana "  will  show :  — 

"  All  day,  within  the  dreamy  house, 
The  door  upon  the  hinges  creaked ; 
The  blue  fly  sung  i'  the  pane ;  the  mouse 
Behind  the  moldering  wainscot  shrieked, 
Or  from  the  crevice  peered  about." 

The  several  circumstances  here  specified  bring  with  them  hosts 
of  appropriate  associations.  Our  attention  is  rarely  drawn  by 
the  buzzing  of  a  fly  in  the  window,  save  when  every  thing  is  still. 
Whilst  the  inmates  are  moving  about  the  house,  mice  usually 
keep  silence ;  and  it  is  only  when  extreme  quietness  reigns  that 
they  peep  from  their  retreats.  Hence  each  of  the  facts  men- 
tioned, presupposing  numerous  others,  calls  up  these  with  more  or 
less  distinctness,  and  revives  the  feeling  of  dull  solitude  with 
which  they  are  connected  in  our  experience.  Were  all  these 
facts  detailed  instead  of  suggested,  the  attention  would  be  so 
frittered  away,  that  little  impression  of  dreariness  would  be  pro- 
duced. And  here,  without  further  explanation,  it  will  be  seen, 
that,  be  the  nature  of  the  sentiment  conveyed  what  it  may,  this 
skillful  selection  of  a  few  particulars  which  imply  the  rest  is  the 
key  to  success.  In  the  choice  of  component  ideas,  as  in  the 
choice  of  expressions,  the  aim  must  be  to  convey  the  greatest 
quantity  of  thoughts  with  the  smallest  quantity  of  words. 

34.  Before  inquiring  whether  the  law  of  effect,  thus  far  traced, 
will  account  for  the  superiority  of  poetry  to  prose,  it  will  be  need- 
ful to  notice  some  supplementary  causes  of  force  in  expression 
that  have  not  yet  been  mentioned.  These  are  not,  properly 
speaking,  additional  causes,  but  rather  secondary  ones,  origi- 
nating from  those  already  specified,  —  reflex  manifestations  of 
them.  In  the  first  place,  then,  we  may  remark,  that  mental  ex- 
citement spontaneously  prompts  the  use  of  those  forms  of  speech 
which  have  been  pointed  out  as  the  most  effective.  "  Out  with 
him!"  "Away  with  him!"  are  the  natural  utterances  of  angry 
citizens  at  a  disturbed  meeting.  A  voyager,  describing  a  terrible 
storm  he  had  witnessed,  would  rise  to  some  such  climax  as, 
" Crack  went  the  ropes,  and  down  carne  the  mast!"  Astonish- 
ment maybe  heard  expressed  in  the  phrase,  "Never  was  there 
such  a  sight ! "  All  of  which  sentences  are,  it  will  be  observed, 
constructed  after  the  direct  type.  Again :  every  one  will  recog* 
nize  the  fact  that  excited  persons  are  given  to  figures  of  speech. 
The  vituperation  of  the  vulgar  abounds  with  them ;  often,  in- 


THE   PHILOSOPHY   OF   STYLE.  33 

deed,  consists  of  little  else.  "  Beast,"  "  brute,"  "  gallows-rogue," 
"  cut-throat  villain,"  —  these,  and  other  like  metaphors  and  meta- 
phorical epithets,  at  once  call  to  mind  a  street-quarrel.  Further : 
it  may  be  remarked  that  extreme  brevity  is  one  of  the  character- 
istics of  passionate  language.  The  sentences  are  generally  in- 
complete;  the  particles  are  omitted;  and  frequently  important 
words  are  left  to  be  gathered  from  the  context.  Great  admira- 
tion does  not  vent  itself  in  a  precise  proposition,  as  "  It  is  beauti- 
ful," but  in  a  simple  exclamation,  "Beautiful!"  He  who,  when 
reading  a  lawyer's  letter,  should  say,  "  Vile  rascal ! "  would  be 
thought  angry;  whilst  "He  is  a  vile  rascal"  would  imply  com- 
parative coolness.  Thus  we  see,  that,  alike  in  the  order  of  the 
words,  in  the  frequent  use  of  figures,  and  in  extreme  conciseness, 
the  natural  utterances  of  excitement  conform  to  the  theoretical 
conditions  of  forcible  expression. 

35.  Hence,  then,  the  higher  forms  of  speech  acquire  a  secondary 
strength    from    association.     Having,   in    actual    life,  habitually 
found  them  in   connection  with  vivid  mental  impressions,   and 
having  been  accustomed  to  meet  with  them  in  the  most  powerful 
writing,  they  come  to  have  in  themselves  a  species  of  force.     The 
emotions  that  have   from   time  to  time  been  produced    by  the 
strong  thoughts  wrapped  up  in  these  forms  are  partially  aroused 
by  the  forms  themselves.     They  create  a  certain  degree  of  ani- 
mation ;    they  induce  a  preparatory  sympathy ;    and,  when    the 
striking  ideas  looked  for  are  reached,  they  are  the  more  vividly 
realized. 

POETRY. 

36.  The  continuous  use  of  those  modes  of  expression  that  are 
alike  forcible  in  themselves  and  forcible  from  their  associations 
produces  the  peculiarly  impressive  species  of  composition  which  we 
call  poetry.     Poetry,  we  shall  find,  habitually  adopts  those  sym- 
bols of  thought,  and  those  methods  of  using  them,  which  instinct 
and  analysis  agree  in  choosing  as  most  effective,  and  becomes 
poetry  by  virtue  of  doing  this.     On  turning  back  to  the  various 
specimens  that  have  been  quoted,  it  will  be  seen  that  the  direct 
or  inverted  form  of  sentence  predominates  in  them,  and  that  to  a 
degree  quite   inadmissible  in    prose.     And   not  only  in  the  fre- 
quency, but  in  what  is  termed  the  violence,  of  the  inversions,  will 
this  distinction  be  remarked.     In   the  abundant  use  of  figures, 
again,  we  may  recognize   the   same   truth.     Metaphors,  similes, 
hyperboles,  and  personifications  are  the   poet's   colors,  which  he 
has  liberty  to  employ  almost  without  limit.     We  characterize  as 
"poetical"  the  prose  which  repeats  these  appliances  of  Language 
with    any  frequency,  and  condemn   it   as  "over-florid"  or  "af- 
fected "  long*  before   they  occur  with  the   profusion   allowed    in 

3 


34  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

verse.  Further :  let  it  be  remarked,  that,  in  brevity,  the  other 
requisite  of  forcible  expression  which  theory  points  out,  and 
emotion  spontaneously  fulfills,  poetical  phraseology  similarly  dif- 
fers from  ordinary  phraseology.  Imperfect  periods  are  frequent ; 
elisions  are  perpetual;  and  many  of  the  minor  words,  which 
would  be  deemed  essential  in  prose,  are  dispensed  with. 

37.  Thus  poetry,  regarded  as  a  vehicle  of  thought,  is  especially 
impressive,  partly  because  it  obeys  all  the  laws  of  effective  speech, 
and  partly  because  in  so  doing  it  imitates  the  natural  utterances 
of  excitement.     Whilst  the  matter  embodied  is  idealized  emotion, 
the  vehicle  is  the  idealized  language  of  emotion.     As  the  musical 
composer  catches  the  cadences  in  which  our  feelings  of  joy  and 
sympathy,  grief  and  despair,  vent  themselves,  and  out  of  these 
germs  evolves  melodies  suggesting  higher  phases  of  these  feel- 
ings^   so   the   poet   develops,    from    the    typical   expressions   in 
which  men  utter  passion  and  sentiment,  those  choice  forms  of 
verbal  combination  in  which  concentrated  passion  and  sentiment 
may  be  fitly  presented. 

38.  There  is  one  peculiarity  of  poetry,  conducing  much  to  its 
effect,  —  the  peculiarity  which  is  indeed  usually  thought  its  char- 
acteristic one,  —  still  remaining  to  be  considered :  we  mean  its 
rhythmical  structure.      This,  unexpected  as  it   may  be,  will  be 
found  to  come  under  the  same  generalization  with  the  others. 
Like  each  of  them,  it  is  an  idealization  of  the  natural  language  of 
emotion,  which  is  known  to  be  more  or  less  metrical  if  the  emotion 
be  not  violent;  and,  like  each  of  them,  it  is  an  economy  of  the 
reader's  or  hearer's  attention.     In  the  peculiar  tone  and  manner 
we  adopt  in  uttering  versified  language  may  be  discerned  its  rela- 
tionship to  the  feelings ;  and  the  pleasure  which  its  measured  move- 
ment gives  us  is  ascribable  to  the  comparative  ease  with  which 
words  metrically  arranged  can  be  recognized.     This  last  position 
will  scarcely  be  at  once  admitted ;  but  a  little  explanation  will  show 
its  reasonableness.     For  if,  as  we  have  seen,  there  is  an  expendi- 
ture of  mental  energy  in  the  mere  act  of* listening  to  verbal  artic- 
ulations, or  in  that  silent  repetition  of  them  which  goes  on   in 
reading ;    if  the  perceptive  faculties  must  be  in  active  exercise 
to  identify  every  s}'llable,  —  then  any  mode  of  combining  words 
so  as  to  present  a  regular  recurrence  of  certain  traits  which  the 
mind   can  anticipate   will   diminish  that  strain  upon   the  atten- 
tion required  by  the  total   irregularity  of  prose.     In  the  same 
manner  that  the  body  in  receiving  a  series  of  varying  concussions 
must  keep  the  muscles  ready  to  meet  the  most  violent  of  them, 
as  not  knowing  when  such  may  come ;   so  the   mind,  in  receiv- 
ing unarranged  articulations,  must   keep  its  perceptives   active 
enough  to  recognize  the  least  easily  caught  sounds.     And  as,  if 
the  concussions  recur  in  a  definite  order,  the  body  "may  husband 


THE  PHILOSOPHY   OF   STYLE.  35 

its  forces  by  adjusting  the  resistance  needful  for  each  concussion ; 
so,  if  the  syllables  be  rhythmically  arranged,  the  mind  may 
economize  its  energies  by  anticipating  the  attention  required  for 
each  syllable.  Far-fetched  as  this  idea  will  perhaps  be  thought, 
a  little  introspection  will  countenance  it.  That  we  do  take  ad- 
vantage of  metrical  language  to  adjust  our  perceptive  faculties  to 
the  force  of  the  expected  articulations,  is  clear  from  the  fact  that 
we  are  balked  by  halting  versification.  Much  as,  at  the  bottom 
of  a  flight  of  stairs,  a  step  more  or  less  than  we  counted  upon 
gives  us  a  shock;  so,  too,  does  a  misplaced  accent  or  a  super- 
numerary syllable.  In  the  one  case,  we  know  that  there  is  an 
erroneous  p re-adjustment ;  and  we  can  scarcely  doubt  that  there  is 
one  in  the  other.  But,  if  we  habitually  pre-adjust  our  perceptions 
to  the  measured  movement  of  verse,  the  physical  analogy  lately 
given  renders  it  probable  that  by  so  doing  we  economize  atten- 
tion; and  hence  that  metrical  language  is  more  effective  than 
prose,  simply  because  it  enables  us  to  do  this. 

Were  there  space,  it  might  be  worth  while  to  inquire  whether 
the  pleasure  we  take  in  rhyme,  and  also  that  which  we  take  in 
euphony,  are  not  partly  ascribable  to  the  same  general  cause. 

ECONOMY    OF    THE    SENSIBILITIES. 

39.  A  few  paragraphs  only  can  be  devoted  to  a  second  division 
of  our  subject  that  here  presents  itself.  To  pursue  in  detail  the 
laws  of  effect,  as  seen  in  the  larger  features  of  composition,  would 
exceed  both  our  limits  and  our  purpose  ;  but  we  may  fitly  indi- 
cate some  further  aspect  of  the  general  principle  hitherto  traced 
out,  and  hint  a  few  of  its  wider  applications. 

Thus  far,  then,  we  have  considered  only  those  causes  of  force 
in  language  which  depend  upon  economy  of  the  mental  energies : 
we  havre  now  briefly  to  glance  at  those  which  depend  upon  econ- 
omy of  the  mental  sensibilities.  Indefensible  though  this  diver- 
sion may  be  as  a  psychological  one,  it  will  yet  serve  roughly  to 
indicate  the  remaining  field  of  investigation.  It  will  suggest, 
that,  besides  considering  the  extent  to  which  any  faculty,  or  group 
of  faculties,  is  taken  in  receiving  a  form  .of  words,  and  realizing 
its  contained  idea,  we  have  to  consider  the  state  in  which  this 
faculty,  or  group  of  faculties,  is  left,  and  how  the  reception  of 
subsequent  sentences  and  images  will  be  influenced  by  that  state. 
Without  going  at  length  into  so  wide  a  topic  as  the  exercise  of 
faculties,  and  its  re-active  effects,  it  will  be  sufficient  here  to  call 
to  mind  that  every  faculty  (when  in  a  state  of  normal  activity)  is 
most  capable  at  the  outset;  and  that  the  change  in  its  condition 
which  ends  in  what  we  term  exhaustion  begins  simultaneously 
with  its  exercise.  This  generalization,  with  which  we  are  all 


36  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

familiar  in  our  bodily  experiences,  and  which  our  daily  language 
recognizes  as  true  of  the  mind  as  a  whole,  is  equally  true  of  each 
mental  power,  from  the  simplest  of  the  senses  to  the  most  com- 
plex of  the  sentiments.  If  we  hold  a  flower  to  the  nose  for  a  long 
time,  we  become  insensible  to  its  scent.  We  say  of  a  very  brilliant 
flash  of  lightning,  that  it  blinds  us;  which  means  that  our  eyes 
have  for  a  time  lost  their  ability  to  appreciate  light.  After  eat- 
ing a  quantity  of  honey,  we  are  apt  to  think  our  tea  is  without 
sugar.  The  phrase,  "A  deafening  roar/'  implies  that  men  find  a 
very  loud  sound  temporarily  incapacitates  them  for  hearing  faint 
ones.  Xow,  the  truth  which  we  at  once  recognize  in  these,  its 
extreme  manifestations,  may  be  traced  throughout;  and  it  may 
be  shown,  that  alike  in  the  reflective  faculties,  in  the  imagina- 
tion, in  the  perceptions  of  the  beautiful,  the  ludicrous,  the  sub- 
lime, in  the  sentiments,  the  instincts,  in  all  the  mental  powers, 
however  we  may  classify  them,  action  exhausts;  and  that,  in 
proportion  as  the  action  is  violent,  the  subsequent  prostration  is 
great. 

40.  Equally,  throughout  the  whole  nature,  may  be  traced  the  law, 
that  exercised  faculties  are  ever  tending  to  resume  their  original 
state.     Not  only,  after  continued  rest,  do  they  regain  their  full 
power,  not  only  do  brief  cessations  partially  re-invigorate  them, 
but,  even  whilst    they  are  in    action,  the    resulting    exhaustion 
is  ever  being  neutralized.     The  two  processes  of  waste  and  repair 
go  on  together.     Hence,  with  faculties  habitually  exercised,  as  the 
senses  in  all  or  the  muscles  in  a  laborer,  it  happens,  that,  during 
modern  activity,  the  repair  is  so  nearly  equal  to  the  waste,  that 
the  diminution  of  power  is  scarcely   appreciable;  and  it  is  only 
when   the   activity  has   been  long   continued,    or  has  been  very 
violent,  that  the  repair  becomes  so  far  in  arrear  of  the  waste  as 
to  produce  a  perceptible  prostration.      In  all  cases,  however,  when, 
by  the  action  of  a  faculty,  waste  has  been  incurred,  some  lapse  of 
time  must  take  place  before  full  efficiency  can  be  re-acquired  ;  and 
this  time  must  be  long  in  proportion  as  the  waste  has  been  great. 

41.  Keeping  in  mind  these  general  truths,  we  shall  be  in  a  con- 
dition to  understand  certain  causes  of  effect  in  composition  now  to 
be  considered.     Every  perception   received,  and  every  conception 
realized,  entailing  some  amount  of  waste,  —  or,  as  Liebig  would 
say.  some  change  of  matter  in  the  brain,  — and  the  efficiency  of 
the   faculties  subject    to   this  waste    being    thereby   temporarily, 
though  often  but  momentarily,  diminished,   the  resulting  partial 
inability  must  aftect  the  acts  of  perception  and  conception  that 
immediately  succeed.     And  hence  we  may  expect  that  the  vivid- 
ness with  which  images  are  realized  will  in  many  cases  depend 
on  the  order  of  their  presentation,  even  when   one  order  is  as 
convenient  to  the   understanding  as   the   other.  _  We  shall  find 


THE   PHILOSOPHY    OF   STYLE.  37 

sundry  facts  which  alike  illustrate  this,  and  are  explained  by 
it.  Climax  is  one  of  them.  The  marked  effect  obtained  by 
placing  last  the  most  striking  of  any  series  of  images,  and 
the  weakness  —  often  ludicrous  weakness  —  produced  by  revers- 
ing this  arrangement,  depend  on  the  general  law  indicated. 
As,  immediately  after  looking  at  the  sun,  we  can  not  perceive 
the  light  of  a  fire,  whilst  by  looking  at  the  fire  first,  and  the 
sun  afterwards,  we  can  perceive  both;  so,  after  receiving  a 
brilliant  or  weighty  or  terrible  thought,  we  can  not  appreciate  a 
less  brilliant,  less  weighty,  or  less  terrible  one,  whilst,  by  revers- 
ing the  order,  we  can  appreciate  each. 

42.  In  Antithesis,  again,  we  may  recognize  the  same  general 
truth.     The  opposition  of  two  thoughts  that  are  the  reverse  of 
each  other  in  some  prominent  trait  insures  an  impressive  effect, 
and  does  this  by  giving  a  momentary  relaxation  of  the  faculties 
addressed.     If,  after  a  series  of  images  of  an  ordinary  character, 
appealing  in  a  moderate  degree  to  the  sentiment  of  reverence  or 
approbation  or  beauty,  the  mind  has  presented  to  it  a  very  insig- 
nificant, a  very  unworthy,  or  a  very  ugly  image,  the  faculty  of 
reverence  or  approbation  or  beauty,  as  the  case  may  be,  having 
for  the  time  nothing  to  do,  tends  to  resume  its  full  power,  and 
will  immediately  afterwards  appreciate  a  vast,  admirable,  or  beau- 
tiful image   better  than  it  would  otherwise  do.     Improbable  as 
these  momentary  variations  in  susceptibility  will  seem  to  many, 
we  can  not  doubt  their  occurrence  when  we  contemplate  the  analo- 
gous variations  in  the  susceptibility  of  the  senses.    Keferring  once 
more  to  phenomena  of  vision,  every  one  knows  that  a  patch  of 
black  on  a  white  ground  looks  blacker,  and  a  patch  of  white  on 
a  black  ground  looks  whiter,  than  elsewhere.     As  the  blackness 
arid  the  whiteness  must  really  be  the  same,  the  only  assignable 
cause  for  this  is  a  difference  in  their  action  upon  us,  dependent 
upon  the  different  states  of  our  faculties.     It  is  simply  a  visual 
antithesis. 

43.  But  this  extension  of  the  general  principle  of  economy,  this 
further  condition  of  effect  in  composition,  —  that  the  power  of  the 
faculties  must  be  continuously  husbanded,  —  includes  much  more 
than    has   been  yet   hinted.     It   implies,  not  only   that    certain 
arrangements  and  certain  juxtapositions  of  connected  ideas  are 
best,  but  that  some  modes  of  dividing  and  presenting  the  subject 
will  be  more  effective  than  others,  and  that,  too,  irrespective  of 
its  logical  cohesion.     It  shows  why  we  must  progress  from  the 
less  interesting  to  the  more   interesting;  and  why  not  only  the 
composition  as  a  whole,  but  each  of  its  successive  portions,  should 
tend  towards  a  climax.     At  the  same  time,  it  forbids  long  con- 
tinuity of  the  same  species  of  thought,  or  repeated  production  of 
the  same  effects.     It  warns  us  against  the  error  committed  both 


38  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

by  Pope  in  his  poems  and  by  Bacon  in  his  essays,  —  the  error, 
namely,  of  constantly  employing  the  most  effective  forms  of  ex- 
ion  ;  and  it  points  out,  that  as  the  easiest  posture  by  and  by 
becomes  fatiguing,  and  is  with  pleasure  exchanged  for  one  less 
easy,  so  the  most  perfectly  constructed  sentences  will  soon  weary, 
and  relief  will  be  given  by  using  those  of  an  inferior  kind.  Fur- 
ther, it  involves  that  not  only  should  we  avoid  generally  com- 
bining our  words  in  one  manner,  however  good,  or  working  out 
our  figures  and  illustrations  in  one  way,  however  telling,  but  we 
should  avoid  any  thing  like  uniform  adherence  even  to  the  wider 
conditions  of  effect.  We  should  not  make  every  section  of  our 
subject  progress  in  interest ;  we  should  not  always  rise  to  a  cli- 
max. As  we  say,  that,  in  single  sentences,  it  is  but  rarely  allow- 
able to  fulfill  all  the  conditions  of  strength  ;  so,  in  the  larger 
portions  of  a  composition,  we  must  not  often  conform  entirely  to 
the  law  indicated.  We  must  subordinate  the  component  effects 
to  the  total  effect. 

44.  In  deciding  how  practically  to  carry  out  the  principles  of 
artistic  composition,  we  may  derive  help  by  bearing  in  mind  a  fact 
already  pointed  out,  —  the  fitness  of  certain  verbal  arrangements 
for  certain  kinds  of  thought.     That  constant  variety  in  the  mode 
of  presenting  ideas  which   the   theory  demands  will  in  a  great 
degree  result  from  a  skillful  adaptation  of  the  form  to  the  matter. 
W?  saw  how  the  direct  or  inverted  sentence  is  spontaneously  used 
by  excited  people,  and  how  their  language  is  also  characterized 
by  figures  of  speech  and  by  extreme  brevity.     Hence  these  may 
with    advantage  predominate    in    emotional    passages,   and    HKiy 
increase  as  the  emotion  rises.     On  the  other  hand,  for  complex 
ideas,  the  indirect  sentence  seems  the  best  vehicle.     In  conversa- 
tion, the  excitement  produced  by  the  near  approach  to  a  desired 
conclusion  will  often    show  itself  in   a  series  of  short,  sharp  sen- 
tences; whilst,  in  impressing  a  view  already  enunciated,  we  gen- 
erally   make    our  periods    voluminous    by   piling   thought    upon 
thought.     These  natural  .modes  of  procedure  may  serve  as  guides 
in  writing.     Keen  observation  and  skillful  analysis  would,  in  like 
manner,  detect  many  other  peculiarities  of  expression  produced 
by  other  attitudes  of  mind  ;  and,  by  paying  due  attention  to  all 
such  traits,  a  writer  possessed  of  sufficient  versatility  might  make 
some  approach  to  a  completely  organized  work. 

45.  This  species  of  composition,  which  the  law  of  effect  points 
out  as  the  perfect  one,  is  the  one  which  high  genius  tends  naturally 
to  produce.     As  we  found  that  the  kinds  of  sentence  which   are 
theoretically  best  are  those  generally  employed  by  superior  minds, 
and  by  inferior  minds  when  excitement  has  raised  them  ;  so  we 
shall  find  that  the  ideal  form  for  a  poem,  essay,  or  fiction,  is  that 
which    the    ideal    writer   would   evolve    spontaneously.     One    iu 


THE  PHILOSOPHY   OF   STYLE.  39 

whom  the  powers  of  expression  fully  responded  to  the  state  of 
mind  would  unconsciously  use  that  variety  in  the  mode  of  pre- 
senting his  thoughts  which  Art  demands.  This  constant  employ- 
ment of  one  species  of  phraseology,  which  all  have  now  to  strive 
against,  implies  an  undeveloped  faculty  of  language.  To  have  a 
specific  style  is  to  be  poor  in  speech.  If  we  glance  back  at  the 
past,  and  remember  that  men  had  once  only  nouns  and  verbs  to 
convey  their  ideas  with,  and  that  from  then  to  now  the  growth 
has  been  towards  a  greater  number  of  implements  of  thought, 
and,  consequently,  towards  a  greater  complexity  and  variety  in 
their  combinations,  we  may  infer  that  we  are  now,  in  our  use  of 
sentences,  much  what  the  primitive  man  was  in  his  use  of 
words ;  and  that  a  continuance  of  the  process  that  has  hitherto 
gone  on  must  produce  increasing  heterogeneity  in  our  modes  of 
expression. 

46.  As,  now,  in  a  fine  nature,  the  play  of  the  features,  the 
tones  of  the  voice  and  its  cadences,  vary  in  harmony  with  every 
thought  uttered ;  so,  in  one  possessed  of  a  fully-developed  power 
of  speech,  the  mold  in  which  combination  of  words  is  cast  will 
similarly  vary  with,  and  be  appropriate  to,  the  sentiment.  That 
a  perfectly  endowed  man  must  unconsciously  write  in  all  styles, 
we  may  infer  from  considering  how  styles  originate.  Why  is 
Arldison  diffuse,  Johnson  pompous,  Goldsmith  simple  ?  Why  is 
one  author  abrupt,  another  rhythmical,  another  concise  ?  Evi- 
dently, in  each  case,  the  habitual  mode  of  utterance  must  depend 
upon  the  habitual  balance  of  the  nature.  The  predominant  feel- 
ings have  by  use  trained  the  intellect  to  represent  them.  But, 
whilst  long  though  unconscious  discipline  has  made  it  do  this 
efficiently,  it  remains,  from  lack  of  practice,  incapable  of  doing 
the  same  for  the  less  powerful  feelings;  and,  when  these  are  ex- 
cited, the  usual  modes  of  expression  undergo  but  a  slight  modifi- 
cation. Let  the  powers  of  speech  be  fully  developed,  however, 
let  the  ability  of  the  intellect  to  convey  the  emotions  be  complete, 
and  this  fixity  of  style  will  disappear.  The  perfect  writer  will 
express  himself  as  Junius,  when  in  the  Junius  frame  of  mind  ; 
when  he  feels  as  Lamb  felt,  will  use  a  like  familiar  speech  ;  and 
will  fall  into  the  ruggedness  of  Carlyle  when  in  a  Carlylean  mood. 
Now  he  will  be  rhythmical,  and  now  irregular  ;  here  his  language 
will  be  plain,  and  there  ornate ;  sometimes  his  sentences  will  be 
balanced,  and  at  other  times  unsymmetrical;  for  a  while  there 
will  be  considerable  sameness,  and  then,  again,  great  variety. 
From  his  mode  of  expression  naturally  responding  to  his  state  of 
feeling,  there  will  flow  from  his  pen  a  composition  changing  to 
the  same  degree  that  the  aspects  of  his  subject  change.  He  will 
thus,  without  effort,  conform  to  what  we  have  seen  to  be  the  laws 
of  effect.  And,  whilst  his  work  presents  to  the  reader  that  variety 


40  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

needful  to  prevent  continuous  exertion  of  the  same  faculties,  it 
will  also  answer  to  the  description  of  all  highly-organized  prod- 
ucts both  of  man  and  of  nature  :  it  will  be,  not  a  series  of  like 
parts  simply  placed  in  juxtaposition,  but  one  whole  made  up  of 
unlike  parts  that  are  mutually  dependent. 


WILLIAM    CULLEN    BRYANT. 

BORN  Nov.  3,  1794,  CCMMINGTON,  MASS. 

It  is  eminently  fitting  for  us  to  begin  the  study  of  English  literature  with  the 
name  of  this  veteran  poet  and  most  accomplished  master  of  pure  English. 

From  1808,  the  date  of  his  first  published  literary  effort,  to  the  present  time,  1870, 
a  period  of  more  than  sixty  years,  the  power  and  beauty  of  the  language  have  been 
almost  continuously  illustrated  by  his  genius.  Combining  in  the  rarest  manner  in 
himself  the  true  poet,  the  careful  critic,  and  the  political  philosopher,  it  would  be 
difficult  to  say  in  which  character  he  has  performed  the  most  distinguished  services 
to  humanity.  *  For  beauty  and  purity  of  thought  and  expression,  his  poems,  and  for 
sound  logic,  and  lucidity  of  style,  his  political  writings,  place  him  in  the  front  rank 
of  modern  authors. 

PRINCIPAL   PRODUCTIONS. 

"  Thanatopsis ; "  "Inscription  for  an  Entrance  into  a  Wood;"  "  Letters  of  a 
Traveler;"  Second  Series  of  "  Letters  of  a  Traveler;"  "  The  Waterfowl ;"  u  The 
Ages;"  three  volumes  of  Poems;  Contributions  as  editor  and  correspondent  of 
"The  New- York  Evening  Post"  since  1826;  "Translation  of  Homer,"  1870. 


THANATOPSia. 

To  him  who,  in  the  love  of  Nature,  holds 
Communion  with  her  visible  forms,  she  speaks 
A  various  language  :  for  his  gayer  hours 
She  has  a  voice  of  gladness,  and  a  smile 
And  eloquence  of  beauty  ;  and  she  glides 
Into  his  darker  musings  with  a  mild 
And  healing  sympathy,  that  steals  awny 
Their  sharpness  ere  he  is  aware.     When  thoughts 
Of  the  last  bitter  hour  come  like  a  blight 
Over  thy  spirit,  and  sad  images 
Of  the  stern  agony,  and  shroud  and  pall, 
And  breathless  darkness,  and  the  narrow  house, 
M  ike  thee  to  shudder,  and  grow  sick  at  heart, 
Go  forth  under  the  open  sky,  and  list 
To  Nature's  teachings  ;  while  from  all  around  — 
Earth  and  her  waters,  and  the  depths  of  air  — 
Comes  a  still  voice  :  "  Yet  a  few  days,  and  thee 
The  all-beholding  sun  shall  see  no  more 


WILLIAM   CULLEN  BRYANT.  41 

In  all  his  course ;  nor  yet  in  the  cold  ground 

Where  thy  pale  form  was  laid  with  many  tears, 

Nor  in  the  embrace  of  ocean,  shall  exist 

Thy  image.     Earth,  that  nourished  thee,  shall  claim 

Thy  growth,  to  be  resolved  to  earth  again  : 

And  lost  each  human  trace,  surrendering  up 

Thine  individual  being,  shalt  thou  go 

To  mix  for  ever  with  the  elements ; 

To  be  a  brother  to  the  insensible  rock, 

And  to  the  sluggish  clod  which  the  rude  swain 

Turns  with  his  share  and  treads  upon.     The  oak 

Shall  send  his  roots  abroad,  and  pierce  thy  mold. 

Yet  not  to  thine  eternal  resting-place 

Shalt  thou  retire  alone  ;  nor  couldst  thou  wish 

Couch  more  magnificent.     Thou  shalt  lie  down 

With  patriarchs  of  the  infant  world,  with  kings, 

The  powerful  of  the  earth,  the  wise,  the  good, 

Fair  forms,  and  hoary  seers  of  ages  past,  — 

All  in  one  mighty  sepulcher.     The  hills, 

Kock-ribbed  and  ancient  as  the  sun ;  the  vales 

Stretching  in  pensive  quietness  between  ; 

The  venerable  woods  ;  rivers  that  move 

In  majesty,  and  the  complaining  brooks 

That  make  the  meadows  green  ;  and,  poured  round  all, 

Old  Ocean's  gray  and  melancholy  waste,  — 

Are  but  the  solemn  decorations,  all, 

Of  the  great  tomb  of  man.     The  golden  sun, 

The  planets,  all  the  infinite  host  of  heaven, 

Are  shining  on  the  sad  abodes  of  death 

Through  the  still  lapse  of  ages.     All  that  tread 

The  globe  are  but  a  handful  to  the  tribes 

That  slumber  in  its  bosom.     Take  the  wings 

Of  morning ;  traverse  Barca's  desert  sands ; 

Or  lose  thyself  in  the  continuous  woods 

Where  rolls  the  Oregon,  and  hears  no  sound 

Save  its  own  dashings  :  yet  the  dead  are  there ; 

And  millions  in  those  solitudes,  since  first 

The  flight  of  years  began,  have  laid  them  down 

In  their  last  sleep  :  the  dead  reign  there  alone. 

So  shalt  thou  rest.     And  what  if  thou  withdraw 

In  silence  from  the  living,  and  no  friend 

Take  note  of  thy  departure  ?     All  that  breathe 

Will  share  thy  destiny.     The  gay  will  laugh 

When  thou  art  gone  ;*  the  solemn  brood  of  care 

Plod  on ;  and  each  one,  as  before,  will  chase 

His  favorite  phantom  :  yet  all  these  shall  leave 

Their  mirth  and  their  employments,  and  shall  come 

And  make  their  bed  with  thee.     As  the  long  train 

Of  ages  glides  away,  the  sons  of  men, 

The  youth  in  life's  green  spring,  and  he  who  goes 

In  the  full  strength  of  years,  matron  and  maid, 

And  the  sweet  babe,  and  the  gray-headed  man, 


42  ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

Shall,  one  by  one,  be  gathered  to  thy  side 
By  those  who  in  their  turn  shall  follow  them. 

So  live,  that,  when  thy  summons  comes  to  join 
The  innumerable  caravan  which  moves 
To  that  mysterious  realm  where  each  shall  take 
His  chamber  in  the  silent  halls  of  death, 
Thou  go  not  like  the  quarry-slave  at  night 
Scourged  to  his  dungeon ;  but,  sustained  and  soothed 
By  an  unfaltering  trust,  approach  thy  grave 
Like  one  who  wraps  the  drapery  of  his  couch 
About  him,  and  lies  down  to  pleasant  dreams." 


THE   CONQUEROR'S   GRAVE. 

WITHIX  this  lowly  grave  a  conqueror  lies ; 
And  yet  the  monument  proclaims  it  not, 
Nor  round  the  sleeper's  name  hath  chisel  wrought 
The  emblems  of  a  fame  that  never  dies,  — 
Ivy  and  amaranth  in  a  graceful  sheaf, 
Twined  with  the  laurel's  fair,  imperial  leaf. 
A  simple  name  alone, 
To  the  great  world  unknown,     . 
Is  graven  here  ;  and  wild-flowers  rising  round  — 
Meek  meadow-sweet  and  violets  of  the  ground  — 
Lean  lovingly  against  the  humble  stone. 

Here,  in  the  quiet  earth,  they  laid  apart 
No  man  of  iron  mold  and  bloody  hands, 
AVho  sought  to  wreak  upon  the  cowering  lands 
The  passions  that  consumed  his  restless  heart ; 
But  one  of  tender  spirit  and  delicate  frame, 
Gentlest  in  mien  and  mind 
Of  gentle  womankind, 

Timidly  shrinking  from  the  breath  of  blarno  ; 
One  in  whose  eyes  the  smile  of  kindness  made 
Its  haunt,  like  flowers  by  sunny  brooks  in  May ; 
Yet,  at  the  thought  of  others'  pain,  a  shade 
Of  sweeter  sadness  chased  the  smile  away. 

Nor  deem,  that,  when  the  hand  that  molders  here 
Was  raised  in  menace,  realms  were  chilled  with  fear, 

And  armies  mustered  at  the  sign,  as  when 
Clouds  rise  on  clouds  before  the  rainy  east,  — 

Gray  captains  leading  bands  of  veteran  men 
And  fiery  youths  to  be  the  vultures'  feast. 
Not  thus  were  waged  the  mighty  wars  that  gave 
The  victory  to  her  who  fills  this  irrave. 
Alone  her  task  was  wrought ; 
Alone  the  battle  fought : 

Through  that  long  strife  her  constant  hope  was  stayed 
On  God  alone,  nor  looked  for  other  aid. 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT.  43 

She  met  the  hosts  of  sorrow  with  a  look 

That  altere'd  not  beneath  the  frown  they  wore ; 
And  soon  the  lowering  brood  were  tamed,  and  took 

Meekly  her  gentle  rule,  and  frowned  no  more. 
Her  soft  hand  put  aside  the  assaults  of  wrath, 
And  calmly  broke  in  twain 
The  fiery  shafts  of  pain, 
And  rent  the  nets  of  passion  from  her  path ; 

By  that  victorious  hand  despair  was  slain. 
With  love  she  vanquished  hate,  and  overcame 
Evil  with  good  in  her  Great  Master's  name. 

Her  glory  is  not  of  this  shadowy  state,  — 

Glory  that  with  the  fleeting  season  dies  ; 
But,  when  she  entered  at  the  sapphire  gate, 

What  joy  was  radiant  in  celestial  eyes  ! 
How  heaven's  bright  depths  with  sounding  welcomes  rung, 
And  flowers  of  heaven  by  shining  hands  were  flung  ! 
And  He  who,  long  before, 
Pain,  scorn,  and  .sorrow  bore, 
The  mighty  Sufferer,  with  aspect  sweet, 
Smiled  on  the  timid  stranger  from  his  seat ; 
He  who,  returning  glorious  from  the  grave, 
Dragged  Death,  disarmed,  in  chains,  a  crouching  slave. 

See !  as  I  linger  here,  the  sun  grows  low ; 

Cool  airs  are  murmuring  that  the  night  is  near. 
O  gentle  sleeper  !  from  thy  grave  1  go 

Consoled,  though  sad,  in  hope,  and  yet  in  fear. 
Brief  is  the  time,  I  know, 
The  warfare  scarce  begun  ; 
Yet  all  may  win  the  triumphs  thou  hast  won  : 
Still  flows  the  fount  whose  waters  strengthened  thee. 

The  victors'  names  are  yet  too  few  to  fill 
Heaven's  mighty  roll;  the  glorious  armory 

That  ministered  to  thee  is  opened  still. 


THE    PA  S  T. 

THOU  unrelenting  Past ! 
Strong  are  the  barriers  round  thy  dark  domain, 

And  fetters  sure  and  fast 
Hold  all  that  enter  thy  unbreathing  reign. 

Far  in  thy  realm  withdrawn, 
Old  empires  sit  in  sullenness  and  gloom ; 

And  glorious  ages  gone 
Lie  deep  within  the  shadow  of  thy  womb. 


44  ENGLISH   L1TEEATUKE. 

Childhood  with  all  its  mirth, 
Youth,  manhood,  age  that  draws  us  to'the  ground, 

And,  last,  man's  life  on  earth, 
Glide  to  thy  dim  dominions,  and  are  bound. 

Thou  hast  my  better  years  ; 
Thou  hast  my  earlier  friends,  —  the  good,  the  kind, 

Yielded  to  thee  with  tears ; 
The  venerable  form,  the  exalted  mind. 

My  spirit  yearns  to  bring 
The  lost  ones  back,  yearns  with  desire  intense, 

And  struggles  hard  to  wring 
Thy  bolts  apart,  and  pluck  thy  captives  thence. 

In  vain  :  thy  gates  deny 
All  passage  save  to  those  who  hence  depart ; 

Nor  to  the  streaming  eye 
Thou  giv'st  them  back,  nor  to  the  broken  heart. 

In  thy  abysses  hide 
Beauty  and  excellence  unknown  :  to  thee 

Earth's  wonder  and  her  pride 
Are  gathered  as  the  waters  to  the  sea,  — 

Labors  of  good  to  man  ; 
Unpublished  charity  ;   unbroken  faith ; 

Love  that  'midst  grief  began, 
And  grew  with  years,  and  faltered  not  in  death. 

Full  many  a  mighty  name 
Lurks  in  thy  depths,  unuttered,  unrevered : 

With  thee  are  silent  fame, 
Forgotten  arts,  and  wisdom  disappeared. 

Thine  for  a  space  are  they  : 
Yet  shalt  thou  yield  thy  treasures  up  at  last ; 

Thy  gates  shall  yet  give  way, 
Thy  bolts  shall  fall,  inexorable  Past ! 

All  that  of  good  and  fair 
Has  gone  into  thy  womb  from  earliest  time 

Shall  then  come  forth  to  wear 
The  glory  and  the  beauty  of  its  prime. 

They  have  not  perished  :  no ! 
Kind  words,  remembered  voices  once  so  sweet, 

Smiles  radiant  long  ago, 
And  features  the  great  soul's  apparent  seat,  — 

All  shall  come  back  ;  each  tie 
Of  pure  affection  shall  be  knit  again  : 

Alone  shall  Evil  die, 
And  Sorrow  dwell  a  prisoner  in  thy  reign. 


WILLIAM   CULLEN  BRYANT.  45 

And  then  shall  I  behold 
Him  by  whose  kind,  paternal  side  I  sprung ; 

And  her  who,  still  and  cold, 
Fills  the  next  grave,  —  the  beautiful  and  young. 


THE    EVENING    WIND. 

SPIRIT  that  breathest  through  my  lattice,  thou 
That  cool'st  the  twilight  of  the  sultry  day  ! 

Gratefully  flows  thy  freshness  round  my  brow : 
Thou  hast  been  out  upon  the  deep  at  play, 

Riding  all  day  the  wild  blue  waves  till  now, 

Roughening  their  crests,  and  scattering  high  their  spray, 

And  swelling  the  white  sail.     I  welcome  Jthee 

To  the  scorched  land,  thou  wanderer  of  the  sea  ! 

Nor  I  alone  :  a  thousand  bosoms  round 

Inhale  thee  in  the  fullness  of  delight ; 
And  languid  forms  rise  up,  and  pulses  bound 

Livelier,  at  coming  of  the  wind  of  night ; 
And,  languishing  to  hear  thy  grateful  sound, 

Lies  the  vast  inland,  stretched  beyond  the  sight. 
Go  forth  into  the  gathering  shade ;  go  forth,  — 
God's  blessing  breathed  upon  the  fainting  earth  ! 

Go  rock  the  little  wood-bird  in  his  nest ; 

Curl  the  still  waters  bright  with  stars ;  and  rouse 
The  wide  old  wood  from  his  majestic  rest, 

Summoning  from  the  innumerable  boughs 
The  strange,  deep  harmonies  that  haunt  his  breast : 

Pleasant  shall  be  thy  way  where  meekly  bows 
The  shutting  flower,  and  darkling  waters  pass, 
And  where  the  o'ershadowing  branches  sweep  the  grass. 

The  faint  old  man  shall  lean  his  silver  head 
To  feel  thee ;  thou  shalt  kiss  the  child  asleep, 

And  dry  the  moistened  curls  that  overspread 

His  temples,  while  his  breathing  grows  more  deep ; 

And  they  who  stand  about  the  sick  man's  bed 
Shall  joy  to  listen  to  thy  distant  sweep, 

And  softly  part  his  curtains  to  allow 

Thy  visit,  grateful  to  his  burning  brow. 

Go  :  but  the  circle  of  eternal  change, 

Which  is  the  life  of  Nature,  shall  restore, 
With  sounds  and  scents  from  all  thy  mighty  range, 

Thee  to  thy  birthplace  of  the  deep  once  more ; 


46  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Sweet  odors  in  the  sea-air,  sweet  and  strange, 

Shall  tell  the  home-sick  mariner  of  the  shore ; 
And,  listening  to  thy  murmur,  he  shall  deem 
He  hears  the  rustling  leaf  and  running  stream. 


THE   BATTLE-FIELD. 

ONCE  this  soft  turf,  this  rivulet's  sands, 
Were  trampled  by  a  hurrying  crowd  ; 

And  fiery  hearts  and  armed  hands 
Encountered  in  the  battle-cloud. 

Ah  !  never  shall  the  land  forget 

How  gushed  the  life-blood  of  her  brave,  — 
Gushed,  warm  with  hope  and  courage  yet, 

Upon  the  soil  they  fought  to  save ! 

Now  all  is  calm  and  fresh  and  still : 

Alone  the  chirp  of  flitting  bird, 
And  talk  of  children  on  the  hill, 

And  bell  of  wandering  kine,  are  heard. 

No  solemn  host  goes  trailing  by 

The  black-mouthed  gun  and  staggering  wain; 
Men  start  not  at  the  battle-cry : 

Oh,  be  it  never  heard  again  ! 

Soon  rested  those  who  fought ;  but  thou 
Who  minglest  in  the  harder  strife 

For  truths  which  men  receive  not  now, — 
Thy  warfare  only  ends  with  life,  — 

A  friendless  warfare,  lingering  long 
Through  weary  day  and  weary  year : 

A  wild  and  many-weaponed  throng 
Hang  on  thy  front  and  flank  and  rear. 

Yet  nerve  thy  spirit  to  the  proof, 

And  blench  not  at  thy  chosen  lot. 
The  timid  good  may  stand  aloof ; 

The  sage  may  frown :  yet  faint  thou  not, 

Nor  heed  the  shaft  too  surely  cast, 
The  foul  and  hissing  bolt  of  scorn ; 

For  with  thy  side  shall  dwell,  at  last, 
The  victory  of  endurance  born. 

Truth,  crushed  to  earth,  shall  rise  again; 

The  eternal  years  of  God  are  hers : 
But  Error,  wounded,  writhes  in  pain, 

And  dies  among  his  worshipers. 


WILLIAM   CULLEN  BRYANT.  47 

Yea,  though  thou  lie  upon  the  dust 

When  they  who  helped  thee  flee  in  fear, 
Die  full  of  hope  and  manly  trust 

Like  those  who  fell  in  battle  here. 

Another  hand  thy  sword  shall  wield, 

Another  hand  the  standard  wave, 
Till  from  the  trumpet's  mouth  is  pealed 

The  blast  of  triumph  o'er  thy  grave. 


THE  ANTIQUITY    OF   FREEDOM. 

O  FREEDOM  !  thou  art  not,  as  poets  dream, 
A  fair  young  girl,  with  light  and  delicate  limbs, 
And  wavy  tresses  gushing  from  the  cap 
With  which  the  Roman  master  crowned  his  slave 
When  he  took  off  the  gyves.     A  bearded  man, 
Armed  to  the  teeth,  art  thou  :  one  mailed  hand 
Grasps  the  broad  shield,  and  one  the  sword ;  thy  brow, 
Glorious  in  beauty  though  it  be,  is  scarred 
With  tokens  of  old  wars;  thy  massive  limbs 
Are  strong  with  struggling.     Power  at  thee  has  launched 
His  bolts,  and  with  his  lightnings  smitten  thee  : 
They  could  not  quench  the  life  thou  hast  from  Heaven. 
Merciless  power  has  dug  thy  dungeon  deep ; 
And  his  swart  armorers,  by  a  thousand  fires, 
Have  forged  thy  chain  :  yet,  while  he  deems  thee  bound, 
The  links  are  shivered,  and  the  prison-walls 
Fall  outward.     Terribly  thou  springest  forth, 
As  springs  the  flame  above  a  burning  pile, 
And  shoutest  to  the  nations,  who  return 
Thy  shoutings,  while  the  pale  oppressor  flies. 

Thy  birthright  was  not  given  by  human  hands : 
Thou  wert  twin-born  with  man.     In  pleasant  fields, 
While  yet  our  race  was  few,  thou  sat'st  with  him 
To  tend  the  quiet  flock  and  watch  the  stars, 
And  teach  the  reed  to  utter  simple  airs. 
Thou  by  his  side,  amid  the  tangled  wood, 
Didst  war  upon  the  panther  and  the  wolf,  — 
His  only  foes ;  and  thou  with  him  didst  draw 
The  earliest  furrow  on  the  mountain-side 
Soft  with  the  Deluge.     Tyranny  himself, 
Thy  enemy,  although  of  reverend  look, 
Hoary  with  many  years,  and  far  obeyed, 
Is  later  born  than  thou  ;  and,  as  he  meets 
The  grave  defiance  of  thine  elder  eye,  „ 
The  usurper  trembles  in  his  fastnesses. 

Thou  shalt  wax  stronger  with  the  lapse  of  years ; 
But  he  shall  fade  into  a  feebler  age,  — 


48  ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

Feebler,  yet  subtler.     He  shall  weave  his  snares, 

And  spring  them  on  thy  careless  steps,  and  clap 

His  withered  hands,  and  from  their  ambush  call 

His  hordes  to  fall  upon  thee.     He  shall  send 

Quaint  maskers,  wearing  fair  and  gallant  forms, 

To  catch  thy  gaze,  and  uttering  graceful  words 

To  charm  thy  ear ;  while  his  sly  imps,  bv  stealth, 

Twine  round"  thee  threads  of  steel,  —  light  thread  on  thread, 

That  grow  to  fetters ;  or  bind  down  thy  arms 

With  chains  concealed  in  chaplets.     Oh  !  not  yet 

Mayst  thou  unbrace  thy  corselet,  nor  lay  by 

Thy  sword ;  nor  yet.  O  Freedom  !  close  thy  lids 

In  slumber :  for  thine  enemy  never  sleeps ; 

And  thou  must  watch  and  combat  till  the  day 

Of  the  new  earth  and  heaven. 


HOSIER. 

O  GODDESS  !  sing  the  wrath  of  Peleus'  son, 
Achilles  ;  sing  the  deadly  wrath  that  brought 
Woes  numberless  upon  the  Greeks,  and  swept 
To  Hades  many  a  valiant  soul,  and  gave 
Their  limbs  a  prey  to  dogs,  and  birds  of  air : 
For  so  had  Jove  appointed,  from  the  time 
When  the  two  chiefs — Atrides,  king  of  men, 
And  great  Achilles  —  parted  first  as  toes. 

Which  of  the  gods  put  strife  between  the  chiefs, 
That  they  should  thus  contend  ?     Latona's  son, 
And  Jove's.     Incensed  against  the  king,  he  bade 
A  deadly  pestilence  appear  among 
The  army  ;  and  the  men  were  perishing. 
For  Atreus'  son,  with  insult,  had  received 
Chryses,  the  priest,  who  to  the  Grecian  fleet 
Came  to  redeem  his  daughter,  offering 
Uncounted  ransom.     In  his  hand  he  bore 
The  fillets  of  Apollo,  archer-god, 
Upon  the  golden  scepter ;  and  he  sued 
To  all  the  Greeks,  but  chiefly  to  the  sons 
Of  Atreus,  the  two  leaders  of  the  host :  — 

"  Ye  sons  of  Atreus,  and  ye  other  chiefs, 
Well-greaved  Achaians.  may  the  gods  who  dwell 
Upon  Olympus  give  you  to  o'erthrow 
The  city  of  Priam,  and  in  safety  reach 
Your  homes  !     But  give  me  my  beloved  child, 
And  take  her  ransom;  honoring  him  who  sends 
His  arrows  far,  —  Apollo,  son  of  Jove." 

Then  all  the  other  Greeks,  applauding,  bade 
Revere  the  priest,  and  take  the  liberal  gifts 


WILLIAM   CULLEN  BRYANT.  49 

He  offered.     But  the  counsel  did  not  please 

Atrides  Agamemnon  :  he  dismissed 

The  priest  with  scorn,  and  added  threatening  words :  — 

*'  Old  man,  let  me  not  find  thee  loitering  here 
Beside  the  roomy  ships,  or  coming  back 
Hereafter,  lest  the  fillet  thou  dost  bear, 
And  scepter  of  thy  god,  protect  thee  not 
This  maiden  I  release  not  till  old  age 
Shall  overtake  her  in  my  Argive  home, 
Far  from  her  native  country,  where  her  hand 
Shall  throw  the  shuttle  and  shall  dress  my  couch. 
Go !  chafe  me  not,  if  thou  wouldst  safely  go." 

He  spake  :  the  a^ed  man  in  fear  obeyed 
The  mandate,  and  in  silence  walked  apart 
Along  the  many-sounding  ocean-side ; 
And  fervently  he  prayed  the  monarch-god, 
Apollo,  golden-haired  Latona's  son  :  — 

"  Hear  me,  thou  bearer  of  the  silver  bow, 
Who  jruardest  Chrysa  and  the  holy  isle 
Of  Cilia,  and  art  lord  in  Tenedos  I 
O  Smintheus !  if  I  ever  helped  to  deck 
Thy  glorious  temple,  if  I  ever  burned 
Upon  thy  altar  the  fat  thighs  of  goats 
And  bullocks,  grant  my  prayer,  and  let  thy  shafts 
Avenge  upon  the  Greeks  the  tears  I  shed." 

So  spake  he,  supplicating ;  and  to  him 
Phoebus  Apollo  hearkened.     Down  he  came, 
Down  from  the  summit  of  the  Olympian  mount, 
Wrathful  in  heart.     His  shoulders  bore  the  bow 
And  hollow  quiver  :  there  the  arrows  rang 
Upon  the  shoulders  of  the  angry  god, 
As  on  he  moved.     He  came  as  comes  the  night ; 
And,  seated  from  the  ships  aloof,  sent  forth 
An  arrow :  terrible  was  heard  the  clang 
Of  that  resplendent  bow.     At  first  he  smote 
The  mules  and  the  swift  dogs ;  and  then  on  man 
He  turned  the  deadly  arrow.     All  around 
Glared  evermore  the  frequent  funeral-piles. 
Nine  days  already  had  his  shafts  been  showered 
Among  the  host ;  and  now,  upon  the  tenth, 
Achilles  called  the  people  of  the  camp 
To  council.     Juno,  of  the  snow-white  arms, 
Had  moved  his  mind  to  this ;  for  she  beheld 
With  sorrow  that  the  men  were  perishing. 
And  when  the  assembly  met,  and  now  was  full, 
Stood  swift  Achilles  in  the  midst,  and  said,  — 

"  To  me  it  seems,  Atrides,  that  'twere  well, 
Since  now  our  aim  is  baffled,  to  return 
4 


50  EXGLISH   LITERATURE. 

Homeward,  if  death  o'ertake  us  not ;  for  war 
And  pestilence  at  once  destroy  the  Greeks. 
But  let  us  first  consult  some  seer  or  priest 
Or  dream-interpreter,  —  for  even  dreams 
Are  sent  by  Jove,  —  and  ask  him  by  what  cause 
Phoebus  Apollo  has  been  angered  thus,  — 
If  by  neglected  vows  or  hecatombs ; 
And  whether  savor  of  fat  bulls  and  goats 
May  move  the  god  to  stay  the  pestilence." 

He  spake,  and  took  again  his  seat.     And  next 
Rose  Calchas,  son  of  Thestor,  and  the  chief 
Of  augurs,  one  to  whom  were  known  things  past 
And  present  and  to  come.     He,  through  the  art 
Of  divination  which  Apollo  gave, 
Had  guided  Ilium-ward  the  ships  of  Greece. 
With  words  well  ordered  warily  he  spake :  — 

"  Achilles,  loved  of  Jove,  thou  biddest  me 
Explain  the  wrath  of  Phoebus,  monarch-god, 
Who  sends  afar  his  arrows.     Willingly 
Will  I  make  known  the  cause :  but  covenant  thou, 
And  swear  to  stand  prepared,  by  word  and  hand, 
To  bring  me  succor;  for  my  mind  misgives 
That  he  who  rules  the  Argives,  and  to  whom 
The  Achaian  race  are  subject,  will  be  wroth. 
A  sovereign  is  too  strong  for  humbler  men  ; 
And,  though  he  keep  his  choler  down  a  while, 
It  rankles,  till  he  sate  it,  in  his  heart. 
And  now  consider :  wilt  thou  hold  me  safe  ?  " 

Achilles,  the  swift-footed,  answered  thus  :  — 
"  Fear  nothing,  but  speak  boldly  out  whate'er 
Thou  knowest,  and  declare  the  will  of  Heaven ; 
For  by  Apollo,  dear  to  Jove,  whom  thou, 
Calchas,  dost  pray  to  when  thou  givest  forth 
The  sacred  oracles  to  men  of  Greece, 
No  man,  while  yet  I  live,  and  see  the  light 
Of  day,  shall  lay  a  violent  hand  on  thee 
Among  our  roomy  ships  ;  no  man  of  all 
The  Grecian  armies,  though  thou  name  the  name 
Of  Agamemnon,  whose  high  boast  it  is 
To  stand  in  power  and  rank  above  them  all." 

Encouraged  thus,  the  blameless  seer  went  on  :  — 
"  'Tis  not  neglected  vows  or  hecatombs 
That  move  him  ,  but  the  insult  shown  his  priest,     . 
Whom  Agamemnon  spurned  when  he  refused 
To  set  his  daughter  free,  and  to  receive 
Her  ransom.     Therefore  sends  the  archer-god 
These  woes  upon  us,  and  will  send  them  still, 
Nor  ever  will  withdraw  his  heavy  hand 
From  our  destruction,  till  the  dark-eyed  maid, 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT.  51 

Freely,  and  without  ransom,  be  restored 
To  her  beloved  father,  and  with  her 
A  sacred  hecatomb  to  Chrysa  sent : 
So  may  we  haply  pacify  the  god." 

Thus  having  said,  the  augur  took  his  seat. 
And  then  the  hero-son  of  Atreus  rose,  — 
Wide-ruling  Agamemnon,  —  greatly  chafed. 
His  gloomy  heart  was  full  of  wrath  ;  his  eyes 
Sparkled  like  fire.     He  fixed  a  menacing  look 
Full  on  the  augur  Calchas,  and  began  :  — 

"  Prophet  of  evil,  never  hadst  thou  yet 
A  cheerful  word  for  me.     To  mark  the  signs 
Of  coming  mischief  is  thy  great  delight. 
Good  dost  thou  ne'er  foretell,  nor  bring  to  pass. 
And  now  thou  pratest,  in  thine  auguries 
Before  the  Greeks,  how  that  the  archer-god 
Afflicts  us  thus  because  I  would  not  take 
The  costly  ransom  offered  to  redeem 
The  virgin-child  of  Chryses.     'Twas  my  choice 
To  keep  her  with  me ;  for  I  prize  her  more 
Than  Clytemnestra,  bride  of  my  young  years, 
And  deem  her  not  less  nobly  graced  than  she, 
In  form  and  feature,  mind,  and  pleasing  arts. 
Yet  will  I  give  her  back  if  that  be  best ; 
For  gladly  would  I  see  my  people  saved 
From  this  destruction.     Let  meet  recompense, 
Meantime,  be  ready,  that  I  be  not  left 
Alone  of  all  the  Greeks  without  my  prize  : 
That  were  not  seemly.     All  of  you  perceive 
That  now  my  share  of  spoil  has  passed  from  me." 

To  him  the  great  Achilles,  swift  of  foot, 
Replied,  "  Renowned  Atrides,  greediest 
Of  men,  where  wilt  thou  that  our  noble  Greeks 
Find  other  spoil  for  thee,  since  none  is  set 
Apart,  a  common  store  V     The  trophies  brought 
From  towns  which  we  have  sacked  have  all  been  shared 
Among  us ;  and  we  could  not  without  shame 
Bid  every  warrior  bring  his  portion  back. 
Yield,  then,  the  maiden  to  the  god,  and  we, 
The  Achaians,  freely  will  appoint  for  thee 
Threefold  and  fourfold  recompense  when  Jove 
Gives  up  to  sack  this  well-defended  Troy." 

Then  the  king  Agamemnon  answered  thus  :  — 
"  Nay,  use  no  craft,  all  valiant  as  thou  art, 
Godlike  Achilles  :  thou  hast  not  the  power 
To  circumvent  nor  to  persuade  me  thus. 
Think'st  thou,  that,  while  thou  keepest  safe  thy  prize, 
I  shall  sit  idly  down,  deprived  of  mine  V 
Thou  bid'st  me  give  the  maiden  back.     'Tis  well 


52  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 


If  to  my  hands  the  noble  Greeks  shall  bring 

The  worth  of  what  I  lose,  and  in  a  shape 

That  pleases  me :  else  will  1  come  myself, 

And  seize  and  bear  away  thy  prize,  or  that 

Of  Ajax  or  Ulysses  ;  leaving  him. 

From  whom  I  take  his  share  to  ra<*e  at  will. 

Another  time  we  will  confer  of  this. 

Now  come,  and  forth  into  the  great  salt  sea 

Launch  a  black  ship,  and  muster  on  the  deck 

Men  skilled  to  row  ;  and  put  a  hecatomb 

On  board ;  and  let  the  fair-cheeked  maid  embark,  — 

Chryseis.     Send  a  prince  to  bear  command,  — 

Ajax,  Idomeneus,  or  the  divine 

Ulysses,  or  thyself,  Pelides,  thou 

Most  terrible  of  men,  that  with  due  rites 

Thou  soothe  the  anger  of  the  archer-god." 

Achilles,  the  swift-footed,  with  stern  look 
Thus  answered  :  "  Ha !  thou  mailed  in  impudence 
And  bent  on  lucre !     Who  of  all  the  Greeks 
Can  willingly  obey  thee  on  the  march, 
Or  bravely  battling  with  the  enemy  ? 
I  came  not  to  this  war  because  of  wrong 
Done  to  me  by  the  valiant  sons  of  Troy. 
No  feud  had  I  with  them :   they  never  took 
My  beeves  or  horses ;  nor  in  Phthia's  realm, 
Deep-soiled  and  populous,  spoiled  my  harvest-fields. 
For  many  a  shadowy  mount  between  us  lies, 
And  waters  of  the  wide-resounding  sea. 
Man  unabashed  !  we  follow  thee,  that  thou 
Mayst  glory  in  avenging  upon  Troy 
The  grudge  of  Menelaus  and  thy  own. 
Thou  shameless  one  !  and  yet  thou  hast  for  this 
Nor  thanks  nor  care.     Thou  threatenest  now  to  take 
From  me  the  prize  for  which  I  bore  long  toils 
In  battle ;  and  the  Greeks  decreed  it  mine. 
I  never  take  an  equal  share  with  thee 
Of  booty  when  the  Grecian  host  has  sacked 
Some  populous  Trojan  town.     My  hands  perform 
The  harder  labors  of  the  fields  in  all 
The  tumult  of  the  fight :  but,  when  the  spoil 
Is  shared,  the  largest  share  of  all  is  thine ; 
While  I,  content  with  little,  see  my  ships 
Weary  with  combat.     I  shall  now  go  home 
To  Phthia :  better  were  it  to  be  there 
With  my  beaked  ships.     But  here,  where  I  am  held 
In  little  honor,  thou  wilt  fail,  I  think, 
To  gather,  in  large  measure,  spoil  and  wealth." 

Him  answered  Agamemnon,  king  of  men  :  — 
"  Desert,  then,  if  thou  wilt :  I  ask  thee  not 
To  stay  for  me.     There  will  be  others  left 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT.  53 

To  do  me  honor  yet ;  and,  best  of  all, 

The  all-providing  Jove  is  with  me  still. 

Thee  I  detest  the  most  of  all  the  men 

Ordained  by  him  to  govern.     Thy  delight 

Is  in  contention,  war,  and  bloody  frays.° 

If  thou  art  brave,  some  deity,  no  doubt, 

Hath  thus  endowed  thee.     Hence,  then,  to  thy  home, 

With  all  thy  ships  and  men  !  there  domineer 

Over  thy  myrmidons.     I  heed  thee  not, 

Nor  care  I  tor  thy  fury.     Thus,  in  turn, 

I  threaten  thee  :  Since  Phoebus  takes  away 

Chryseis,  I  will  send  her  in  my  ship, 

And  with  my  friends ;  and,  coming  to  thy  tent, 

Will  bear  away  the  fair-cheeked  maid,  thy  prize, 

Briseis,  that  thou  learn  how  far  I  stand 

Above  thee,  and  that  other  chiefs  may  fear 

To  measure  strength  with  me  and  brave  my  power." 

The  rage  of  Peleus'  son,  as  thus  he  spake, 
Grew  fiercer :  in  that  shaggy  breast  his  heart 
Took  counsel,  whether  from  his  thigh  to  draw 
The  trenchant  sword,  and,  thrusting  back  the  rest, 
Smite  down  Atrides ;  or  subdue  his  wrath, 
And  master  his  own  spirit.     While  he  thus 
Debated  with  himself,  and  half  unsheathed 
The  ponderous  blade,  Pallas  Athene  came, 
Sent  from  on  high  by  Juno  the  white-armed, 
Who  loved  both  warriors,  and  watched  over  both. 
Behind  Pelides,  where  he  stood,  she  came, 
And  plucked  his  yellow  hair.     The  hero  turned 
In  wonder ;  and  at  once  he  knew  the  look 
Of  Pallas,  and  the  awful-gleaming  eye, 
And  thus  accosted  her  with  winged  words :  — 
"  Why  com'st  thou  hither,  daughter  of  the  god 
Who  bears  the  aegis  ?     Art  thou  here  to  see 
The  insolence  of  Agamemnon,  son 
Of  Atreus  ?     Let  me  tell  thee  what  I  deem 
Will  be  the  event.     That  man  may  lose  his  life, 
And  quickly,  too,  for  arrogance  like  this." 

Book  1. 1-267. 


54  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

HENRY   WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW. 

BORN  FEB.  27,  1807,  PORTLAND,  ME. 

As  Professor  of  Modern  Languages  and  Belles-Lettres  in  Bowdoin  College  from 
1829  to  1835,  and  in  Harvard  University  from  1835  to  1854,  Mr.  Longfellow  has  done 
much  to  refine  and  polish  the  literary  taste  of  his  time,  both  as  critic  and  poet.  It 
is  superfluous  to  speak  in  praise  of 'his  numerous  literary  productions,  since  they 
are  sought  with  equal  eagerness  at  home  and  abroad.  A  thorough  student  in  the 
polite  literature  of  all  nations,  a  welcome  guest  and  intelligent  observer  in  American 
and  European  society,  a  poet  of  purest  thought  and  expression,  he  ennobles  life 
with  so  much  generous  human  sympathy  in  all  his  writings,  that  they  are  read  and 
admired  as  the  thoughts  of  a  cherished  friend. 

PRINCIPAL    PRODUCTIONS. 

"Outre  Mer,"  1835;  "Hyperion,"  and  "Voices  of  the  Night,"  1839;  "  Evan- 
geline,"  1847;  "The  Spanish  Student,"  1843;  "The  Golden  Legend,"  1845; 
"Ballads  and  Poems,"  1841;  "  Kavanagh."  1848;  many  minor  Poems.  "Poets 
and  Poetry  of  Europe,"  1845;  "  Belfry  of  Bruges;  "  "  Seaside  and  Fireside,"  1849; 
"  The  Song  of  Hiawatha,"  1855;  "  The  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish,"  1858. 


A  PSALM  OF  LIFE. 
What  the  heart  of  the  young  man  said  to  the  Psalmist. 

TELL  me  not,  in  mournful  numbers, 

Life  is  but  an  empty  dream  ; 
For  the  soul  is  dead  that  slumbers, 

And  things  are  not  what  they  seem. 

Life  is  real,  life  is  earnest ; 

And  the  grave  is  not  its  goal : 
"  Dust  thou  art,  to  dust  returnest," 

Was  not  spoken  of  the  soul. 

Not  enjoyment,  and  not  sorrow, 

Is  our  destined  end  or  way  ; 
But  to  act,  that  each  to-morrow 

Find  us  farther  than  to-day.    . 

Art  is  long,  and  Time  is  fleeting ; 

And  our  hearts,  though  stout  and  brave, 
Still,  like  muffled  drums,  are  beating 

Funeral-marches  to  the  grave. 

In  the  world's  broad  field  of  battle, 

In  the  bivouac  of  Life, 
Be  not  like  dumb,  driven  cattle : 

Be  a  hero  in  the  strife. 


HENRY   WADSWOKTH  LONGFELLOW.  55 

Trust  no  Future,  howe'er  pleasant ; 

Let  the  dead  Past  bury  its  dead : 
Act,  act  in  the  living  Present,  — 

Heart  within,  and  God  o'erhead. 

Lives  of  great  men  all  remind  us    • 

We  can  make  our  lives  sublime, 
And,  departing,  leave  behind  us 

Footprints  on  the  sands  of  Time,  — 

Footprints  that  perhaps  another, 

Sailing  o'er  Life's  solemn  main,  — 
A  forlorn  and  shipwrecked  brother, — 

Seeing,  shall  take  heart  again. 

Let  us,  then,  be  up  and  doing, 

With  a  heart  for  any  fate ; 
Still  achieving,  still  pursuing, 

Learn  to  labor  and  to  wait. 


THE  REAPER   AND    THE  FLOWERS, 

THERE  is  a  Reaper  whose  name  is  Death ; 

And  with  his  sickle  keen 
He  reaps  the  bearded  grain  at  a  breath, 

And  the  flowers  that  grow  between. 

"  Shall  I  have  naught  that  is  fair  ?  "  saith  he ; 

"  Have  naught  but  the  bearded  grain  V 
Though  the  breath  of  these  flowers  is  sweet  to  me, 

I  will  give  them  all  back  again." 

He  gazed  at  the  flowers  with  tearful  eyes ; 

He  kissed  their  drooping  leaves  : 
It  was  for  the  Lord  of  Paradise 

He  bound  them  in  his  sheaves. 

"  My  Lord  has  need  of  these  flowerets  gay," 

The  Reaper  said,  and  smiled  : 
"  Dear  tokens  of  the  earth  are  they, 

Where  he  was  once  a  child. 

«  They  shall  all  bloom  in  fields  of  light, 

Transplanted  by  my  care ; 
And  saints  upon  their  garments  white 

These  sacred  blossoms  wear." 

And  the  mother  gave,  in  tears  and  pain, 

The  flowers  she  most  did  love  : 
She  knew  she  should  find  them  all  again 

In  the  fields  of  light  above. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Oh !  not  in  cruelty,  not  in  wrath, 
The  Reaper  came  that  day  : 

'Twas  an  angel  visited  tfye  green  earth, 
And  took  the  flowers  away. 


FOOTSTEPS    OF   ANGELS, 

• 

WHEN  the  hours  of  day  are  numbered^ 

And  the  voices  of  the  night 
Wake  the  better  soul,  that  slumbered, 

To  a  holy,  calm  delight; 

Ere  the  evening  lamps  are  lighted, 
And,  like  phantoms  grim  and  tall, 

Shadows  from  the  fitful  fire-light 
Dance  upon  the  parlor-wall,  — 

Then  the  forms  of  the  departed 

Enter  at  the  open  door : 
The  beloved,  the  true-hearted, 

Come  to  visit  me  once  more. 

He,  the  young  and  strong,  who  cherished 
Noble  longings  for  the  strife, 

By  the  roadside  fell  and  perished, 
Weary  with  the  march  of  life. 

They,  the  holy  ones  and  weakly, 
Who  the  cross  of  suffering  bore, 

Folded  their  pale  hands  so  meekly  ! 
Spake  with  us  on  earth  no  more  t 

And  with  them  the  being  beauteous, 
Who  unto  my  youth  was  given 

More  than  all  things  else  to  love  me, 
And  is  now  a  saint  in  heaven. 

With  a  slow  and  noiseless  footstep 
Comes  that  messenger  divine, 

T  \es  the  vacant  chair  beside  me, 
Lays  her  gentle  hand  in  mine. 

And  she  sits  and  gazes  at  me 

With  those  deep  and  tender  eyes,. 

lake  the  stars,  so  still  and  saint-like, 
Looking  downward  from  the  skies. 

tittered  not,  yet  comprehended, 
Is  the  spirit's  voiceless  prayer ; 

Soft  rebukes,  in  blessings  ended, 
Breathing  from  her  lips  of  air. 


HENRY   WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW.  57 


Oh !  though  oft  depressed  and  lonely, 
All  my  lears  are  laid  aside 

If  I  but  remember  only, 

Such  as  these  have  lived  and  died. 


THE   BELEAGUERED    CITY. 

I  HAVE  read,  in  some  old,  marvelous  tale, 
Some  legend  strange  and  vague-, 

That  a  midnight  host  of  specters  pale 
Beleaguered  the  walls  of  Prague. 

Beside  the  Moldau's  rushing  stream, 

With  the  wan  moon  overhead, 
There  stood,  as  in  an  awful  dream, 

The  army  of  the  dead. 

White  as  a  sea-fog  landward  bound, 

The  spectral  camp  was  seen  ; 
And  with  a  sorrowful,  deep  sound, 

The  river  flowed  between. 

No  other  voice  nor  sound  was  there, , 

No  drum,  nor  sentry's  pace  : 
The  mist-like  banners  clasped  the  air 

As  clouds  with  clouds  embrace. 

But,  when  the  old  cathedral-bell 
Proclaimed  the  morning  prayer, 

The  white  pavilions  rose  and  fell 
On  the  alarmed  air. 

Down  the  broad  valley  fast  and  far 

The  troubled  army  fled  : 
Up  rose  the  glorious  morning-star ; 

The  ghastly  host  was  dead. 

I  have  read,  in  the  marvelous  heart  of  man, 
That  strange  and  mystic  scroll,  — 

That  an  army  of  phantoms  vast  and  wan 
Beleaguer  the  human  soul. 

Encamped  beside  Life's  rushing  stream, 

In  Fancy's  misty  light, 
Gigantic  shapes  and  shadows  gleam 

Portentous  through  the  night. 


58  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

Upon  its  midnight  battle-ground 
The  spectral  camp  is  seen  ; 

And  with  a  sorrowful,  deep  sound, 
Flows  the  River  of  Lite  between. 

No  other  voice  nor  sound  is  there 

In  the  army  of  the  grave  ; 
No  other  challenge  breaks  the  air 

But  the  rushing  of  Life's  wave. 

And,  when  the  solemn  and  deep  church-bell 

Entreats  the  soul  to  pray, 
The  midnight  phantoms  feel  the  spell, 

The  shadows  sweep  away. 

Down  the  broad  Vale  of  Tears  afar 

The  spectral  camp  is  fled  : 
Faith  shineth  as  a  morning-star ; 

Our  ghastly  fears  are  dead. 


MAIDENHOOD. 

MAIDEN  with  the  meek,  brown  eyes, 
In  whose  orbs  a  shadow  lies 
Like  the  dusk  in  evening  skies  ! 

Thou  whose  locks  outshine  the  sun,  — 
Golden  tresses,  wreathed  in  one, 
As  the  braided  streamlets  run  ! 

Standing  with  reluctant  feet 
Where  the  brook  and  river  meet, 
Womanhood  and  childhood  fleet ! 

Gazing  with  a  timid  glance 
On  the  brooklet's  swift  advance, 
On  the  river's  broad  expanse ! 

Deep  and  still,  that  gliding  stream 
Beautiful  to  thee  must  seem 
As  the  river  of  a  dream. 

Then  why  pause  with  indecision, 
When  bright  angels  in  thy  vision 
Beckon  thee  to  fields  Elysian  ? 

Seest  thou  shadows  sailing  by, 
A?  the  dove,  with  startled  eye, 
Sees  the  falcon's  shadow  fly'? 


HENRY   WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW.  59 

Hear'st  thou  voices  on  the  shore, 
That  our  ears  perceive  no  more, 
Deafened  by  the  cataract's  roar  ? 

O  thou  child  of  many  prayers ! 

Lii'e  hath  quicksands,  life  hath  snares : 

Care  and  age  come  unawares. 

Like  the  swell  of  some  sweet  tune, 
Morning  rises  into  noon, 
May  glides  onward  into  June, 

Childhood  is  the  bough  where  slumbered 
Birds  and  blossoms  many-numbered  ; 
Age,  that  bough  with  snows  encumbered. 

Gather,  then,  each  flower  that  grows 
When  the  young  heart  overflows, 
To  embalm  that  tent  of  snows, 

Bear  a  lily  in  thy  hand : 

Gates  of  brass  can  not  withstand 

One  touch  of  that  magic  wand. 

Bear,  through  sorrow,  wrong,  and  ruth, 
In  thy  heart  the  dew  of  youth, 
On  thy  lips  the  smile  of  truth. 

Oh!  that  dew,  like  balm,  shall  steal 
Into  wounds  that  can  not  heal, 
Even  as  sleep  our  eyes  doth  seal ; 

And  that  smile,  like  sunshine,  dart 
Into  many  a  sunless  heart : 
For  a  smile  of  God  thou  art. 


EXCELSIOR. 

THE  shades  of  night  were  falling  fast 
As  through  an  Alpine  village  passed 
A  youth,  who  bore,  'mid  snow  and  ice, 
A  banner  with  the  strange  device,  — 
"  Excelsior !  " 

His  brow  was  sad ;  his  eye  beneath 
Flashed  like  a  falchion  from  its  sheath ; 
And  like  a  silver  clarion  rung 
The  accents  of  that  unknown  tongue,  — * 
"  Excelsior ! " 


GO  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

In  happy  homes  he  saw  the  light 
Of  household-fires  gleam  warm  and  bright ; 
Above,  the  spectral  glaciers  shone  ; 
And  from  his  lips  escaped  a  groan,  — 
"  Excelsior !  " 

**  Try  not  the  pass  !  "  the  old  man  said ; 
"  Dark  lowers  the  tempest  overhead ; 
The  roaring  torrent  is  deep  and  wide ! " 
And  loud  that  clarion  voice  replied, 
"  Excelsior !  " 

"  Oh,  stay/'  the  maiden  said,  "  and  rest 
Thy  weary  head  upon  this  breast !  " 
A  tear  stood  in  his  bright  blue  eye ; 
But  still  he  answered  with  a  sigh, 
"  Excelsior ! " 

"  Beware  the  pine-tree's  withered  branch ! 
Beware  the  awful  avalanche  !  " 
This  was  the  peasant's  last  good-night : 
A  voice  replied,  far  up  the  hight, 
"  Excelsior ! " 

At  break  of  day,  as  heavenward 
The  pious  monks  of  Saint  Bernard 
Uttered  the  oft-repeated  prayer, 
A  voice  cried  through  the  startled  air, 
"  Excelsior  ! " 

A  traveler  by  the  faithful  hound 
Half  buried  in  the  snow  was  found, 
Still  grasping  in  his  hand  of  ice 
That  banner  with  the  strange  device,  — 
u  Excelsior !  " 

There  in  the  twilight  cold  and  gray, 
Lifeless,  but  beautiful,  he  lay ; 
And  from  the  sky,  serene  and  far, 
A  voice  fell,  like  a  falling  star, 
"Excelsior!" 


THE    BUILDING   OF    THE   SHIP. 

ALL  is  finished  ;  and  at  length 

Has  come  the  bridal  day 

Of  beauty  and  of  strength. 

To-day  the  vessel  shall  be  launched  ! 

With  fleecy  clouds  the  sky  is  blanched ; 

And  o'er  the  bay, 


HENRY   WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW.  61 

Slowly,  in  all  his  splendors  dight, 

The  great  sun  rises  to  behold  the  sight. 

The  ocean  old, 

Centuries  old, 

Strong  as  youth,  and  as  uncontrolled, 

Paces  restless  to  and  fro 

Up  and  down  the  sands  of  gold. 

His  beating  heart  is  not  at  rest ; 

And  far  and  wide, 

With  ceaseless  flow, 

His  beard  of  snow 

Heaves  with  the  heaving  of  his  breast. 

He  waits  impatient  for  his  bride. 

There  she  stands, 

With  her  foot  upon  the  sands, 

Decked  with  flags  and  streamers  gay, 

In  honor  of  her  marriage-day ; 

Her  snow-white  signals  fluttering,  blending, 

Kound  her  like  a  vail  descending, 

Ready  to  be 

The  bride  of  the  gray  old  sea. 

On  the  deck  another  bride 
Is  standing  by  her  lover's  side. 
Shadows  from  the  flags  and  shrouds, 
Like  the  shadows  cast  by  clouds, 
Broken  by  many  a  sunny  fleck, 
Fall  around  them  on  the  deck. 

The  prayer  is  said, 

The  service  read ; 

The  joyous  bridegroom  bows  his  head ; 

And  in  tears  the  good  old  master 

Shakes  the  brown  hand  of  his  son, 

Kisses  his  daughter's  glowing  cheek 

In  silence,  for  he  can  not  speak ; 

And  ever  faster 

Down  his  own  the  tears  begin  to  run. 

The  worthy  pastor  — 

The  shepherd  of  that  wandering  flock 

That  has  the  ocean  for  its  wold, 

That  has  the  vessel  for  its  fold, 

Leaping  ever  from  rock  to  rock  — 

Spake,  with  accents  mild  and  clear, 

Words  of  warning,  words  of  cheer, 

But  tedious  to  the  bridegroom's  ear. 

He  knew  the  chart 

Of  the  sailor's  heart,  — 

All  its  pleasures  and  its  griefs  ; 

All  its  shallows  and  rocky  reefs ; 

All  those  secret  currents  that  flow 

With  such  resistless  undertow, 


C2  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

And  lift  and  drift,  with  terrible  force, 

The  will  from  its  moorings  and  its  course. 

Therefore  he  spake,  and  fhus  said  he :  — 

"  Like  unto  ships  far  off  at  sea, 

Outward  or  homeward  bound,  are  we. 

Before,  behind,  and  all  around,    . 

Floats  and  swings  the  horizon's  bound ; 

Seems  at  its  distant  rim  to  rise 

And  climb  the  crystal  wall  of  the  skies, 

And  then  again  to  turn  and  sink, 

As  if  we  could  slide  from  its  outer  brink. 

Ah  !  it  is  not  the  sea, 

It  is  not  the  sea,  that  sinks  and  shelves, 

But  ourselves 

That  rock  and  rise 

With  endless  and  uneasy  motion, — 

Now  touching  the  very  skies, 

Now  sinking  into  the  depths  of  ocean. 

Ah!  if  our  souls  but  poise  and  swing 

Like  the  compass  in  its  brazen  ring, 

Ever  level  and  ever  true 

To  the  toil  and  the  task  we  have  to  do, 

We  shall  sail  securely,  and  safely  reach 

The  Fortunate  Isles,  on  whose  shining  beach 

The  sights  we  see  and  the  sounds  we  hear 

Will  be  those  of  joy,  and  not  of  fear. " 

Then  the  master, 

With  a  trc-slnre  of  command, 

Waved  his  hand ; 

And,  at  the  word, 

Loud  and  sudden  there  was  heard, 

All  around  them  and  below, 

The  sound  of  hammers,  blow  on  blow, 

Knocking  away  the  shores  and  spurs. 

And  see  1  she  stirs ! 

She  starts  1  she  moves !  she  seems  to  feel 

The  thrill  of  life  along  her  keel ! 

And,  spurning  with  her  foot  the  ground, 

With  one  exulting,  joyous  bound 

She  leaps  into  the  ocean's  arms ! 

And,  lo !  from  the  assembled  crowd 

There  rose  a  shout  prolonged  and  loud, 

That  to  the  ocean  seemed  to  say, 

"  Take  her,  O  bridegroom  old  and  gray, 

Take  her  to  thy  protecting  arms, 

With  all  her  youth  and  all  her  charms  ! " 

How  beautiful  she  is  !     How  fair 
She  lies  within  those  arms  that  press 
Her  form  with  many  a  soft  caress 
Of  tenderness  and  watchful  care ! 


HENRY  WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW.  63 

Sail  forth  into  the  sea,  O  ship  ! 
Through  wind  and  wave  right  onwar,d  steer  1 
The  moistened  eye,  the  trembling  lip, 
Are  not  the  signs  of  doubt  or  fear. 

Sail  forth  into  the  sea  of  life, 
O  gentle,  loving,  trusting  wife ! 
And  safe  from  all  adversity 
Upon  the  bosom  of  that  sea 
Thy  comings  and  thy  goings  be  ! 
For  gentleness  and  love  and  trust 
Prevail  o'er  angry  wave  and  gust ; 
And  in  the  wreck  of  noble  lives 
Something  immortal  still  survives. 

Thou,  too,  sail  on,  O  Ship  of  State  I 

Sail  on,  O  UNION  strong  and  great  1 

Humanity  with  all  its  fears, 

With  all  the  hopes  of  future  years, 

Is  hanging  breathless  on  thy  fate. 

We  know  what  master  laid  thy  keel ; 

What  workmen  wrought  thy  ribs  of  steel ; 

Who  made  each  mast  and  sail  and  rope ; 

What  anvils  rang,  what  hammers  beat ; 

In  what  a  forge  and  what  a  heat 

Were  shaped  the  anchors  of  thy  hope. 

Fear  not  each  sudden  sound  and  shock : 

'Tis  of  the  wave,  and  not  the  rock ; 

'Tis  but  the  flapping  of  the  sail, 

And  not  a  rent  made  by  the  gale. 

In  spite  of  rock,  and  tempest's  roar, 

In  spite  of  false  lights  on  the  shore, 

Sail  on,  nor  fear  to  breast  the  sea : 

Our  hearts,  our  hopes,  are  all  with  thee ; 

Our  hearts,  our  hopes,  our  prayers,  our  tears, 

Our  faith  triumphant  o'er  our  fears, 

Are  all  with  thee,  —  are  all  with  thee ! 


HI  A  WA  TEA '  S    WO  OING. 

"  As  unto  the  bow  the  cord  is, 
So  unto  the  man  is  woman  : 
Though  she  bends  him,  she  obeys  him ; 
Though  she  draws  him,  yet  she  follows: 
Useless  each  without  the  other." 

Thus  the  youthful  Hiawatha 
Said  within  himself,  and  pondered, 
Much  perplexed  by  various  feelings  ; 
Listless,  longing,  hoping,  fearing, 
Dreaming  still  of  Minnehaha, 


64  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Of  the  lovely  Laughing  Water, 
In  the  land  of  the  Dakotahs. 

"  AVed  a  maiden  of  your  people," 
Warning  said  the  old  Nokomis : 
"  Go  not  eastward,  go  not  westward, 
For  a  stranger  whom  we  know  not. 
Like  a  fire  upon  the  hearth-stone 
Is  a  neighbor's  homely  daughter  ; 
Like  the  starlight  or  the  moonlight 
Is  the  handsomest  of  strangers." 

Thus  dissuading  spake  Nokomis ; 
And  my  Hiawatha  answered 
Only  this  :  "  Dear  old  Nokomis, 
Very  pleasant  is  the  firelight ; 
But  I  like  the  starlight  better, 
Better  do  I  like  the  moonlight." 

Gravely  then  said  old  Nokomis, 
"  Bring  not  here  an  idle  maiden, 
Bring  not  here  a  useless  woman,  — 
Hands  unskillful,  feet  unwilling  : 
Bring  a  wife  with  nimble  fingers, 
Heart  and  hand  that  move  together, 
Feet  that  run  on  willing  errands." 

Smiling  answered  Hiawatha, 
"  In  the  land  of  the  Dakotahs 
Lives  the  arrow-maker's  daughter,  — 
Minnehaha,  Laughing  Water, 
Handsomest  of  all  the  women. 
I  will  bring  her  to  your  wigwam : 
She  shall  run  upon  your  errands, 
Be  your  starlight,  moonlight,  firelight, 
Be  the  sunlight  of  my  people." 

Still  dissuading  said  Nokomis, 
"  Bring  not  to  my  lodge  a  stranger 
From  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs. 
Very  fierce  are  the  Dacotahs ; 
Often  is  there  war  between  us : 
There  are  feuds  yet  unforgotten,  — 
Wounds  that  ache,  and  still  may  open." 

Laughing  answered  Hiawatha, 
"  For  that  reason,  if  no  other, 
Would  I  wed  the  fair  Dacotah, 
That  our  tribes  might  be  united, 
That  old  feuds  might  be  forgotten, 
And  old  wounds  be  healed  for  ever." 

Thus  departed  Hiawatha 
To  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs, 
To  the  land  of  handsome  women ; 
Striding  over  moor  and  meadow, 
Through  interminable  forests, 
Through  uninterrupted  silence. 

With  his  moccasins  of  magic, 


HENKY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW.  65 

At  each  stroke  a  mile  he  measured : 
Yet  the  way  seemed  long  before  him, 
And  his  heart  outran  his  footsteps ; 
And  he  journeyed  without  resting, 
Till  he  heard  the  cataract's  laughter, 
Heard  the  Falls  of  Minnehaha 
Calling  to  him  through  the  silence. 
"  Pleasant  is  the  sound,"  he  murmured ; 
"  Pleasant  is  the  voice  that  calls  me." 

On  the  outskirts  of  the  forest, 
'Twixt  the  shadow  and  the  sunshine, 
Herds  of  fallow-deer  were  feeding ; 
But  they  saw  not  Hiawatha. 
To  his  bow  he  whispered,  "  Fail  not !  " 
To  his  arrow  whispered,  "  Swerve  not  1  " 
Sent  it  singing  on  its  errand 
To  the  red  heart  of  the  roebuck ; 
Threw  the  deer  across  his  shoulder, 
And  sped  forward  without  pausing. 

At  the  doorway  of  his  wigwam 
Sat  the  ancient  arrow-maker, 
In  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs, 
Making  arrow-heads  of  jasper, 
Arrow-heads  of  chalcedony. 
At  his  side,  in  all  her  beauty, 
Sat  the  lovely  Minnehaha, 
Sat  his  daughter,  Laughing  Water, 
Plaiting  mats  of  flags  and  rushes  : 
Of  the  past  the  old  man's  thoughts  were; 
And  the  maiden's,  of  the  future. 

He  was  thinking,  as  he  sat  there, 
Of  the  days  when  with  such  arrows 
He  had  struck  the  deer  and  bison 
On  the  Muskoday,  the  meadow ; 
Shot  the  wild-goose  flying  southward, 
On  the  wing,  the  clamorous  Wawa ; 
Thinking  of  the  great  war-parties, 
How  they  came  to  buy  his  arrows, 
Could  not  fight  without  his  arrows. 
Ah !  no  more  such  noble  warriors 
Could  be  found  on  earth  as  they  were  : 
Now  the  men  were  all  like  women,  — 
Only  used  their  tongues  for  weapons ! 

She  was  thinking  of  a  hunter 
From  another  tribe  and  country, 
Young  and  tall  and  very  handsome, 
Who  one  morning,  in  the  springtime, 
Came  to  buy  her  father's  arrows, 
Sat  and  rested  in  the  wigwam, 
Lingered  long  about  the  doorway, 
Looking  back  as  he  departed. 
She  had  heard  her  lather  praise  him, 
5        * 


66  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Praise  his  courage  and  his  wisdom : 
Would  he  come  again  for  arrows 
To  the  falls  of  Minnehaha? 
On  the  mat  her  hands  lay  idle, 
And  her  eyes  were  very  dreamy. 

Through  their  thoughts  they  heard  a  footstep, 
Heard  a  rustling  in  the  branches  ; 
And  with  glowing  cheek  and  forehead, 
With  the  deer  across  his  shoulders, 
Suddenly  from  out  the  woodlands 
Hiawatha  stood  before  them. 

Straight  the  ancient  arrow-maker 
Looked  up  gravely  from  his  labor, 
Laid  aside  the  unfinished  arrow, 
Bade  him  enter  at  the  doorway ; 
Saying,  as  he  rose  to  meet  him, 
"  Hiawatha,  you  are  welcome  !  " 

At  the  feet  of  Laughing  Water 
Hiawatha  laid  his  burden, 
Threw  the  red  deer  from  his  shoulders ; 
And  the  maiden  looked  up  at  him, 
Looked  up  from  her  mat  of  rushes, 
Said  with  gentle  look  and  accent, 
"  You  are  welcome,  Hiawatha !  " 

Very  spacious  was  the  wigwam, 
Made  of  deer-skin  dressed  and  whitened, 
With  the  gods  of  the  Dacotahs 
Drawn  and  painted  on  its  curtains  ; 
And  so  tall  the  doorway,  hardly 
Hiawatha  stooped  to  enter, 
Hardly  touched  his  eagle  feathers 
As  he  entered  at  the  doorway. 
Then  uprose  the  Laughing  Water, 
From  the  ground  fair  Minnehaha, 
Laid  aside  her  mat  unfinished, 
Brought  forth  food  and  set  before  them, 
Water  brought  them  from  the  brooklet, 
Gave  them  food  in  earthen  vessels, 
Gave  them  drink  in  bowls  of  bass-wood, 
Listened  while  the  guest  was  speaking, 
Listened  while  her  father  answered ; 
But  not  once  her  lips  she  opened, 
Not  a  single  word  she  uttered. 

Yes,  as  in  a  dream  she  listened 
To  the  words  of  Hiawatha, 
As  he  talked  of  old  Nokomis, 
Who  had  nursed  him  in  his  childhood, 
As  he  told  of  his  companions,  — 
Chibiabos  the  musician, 
And  the  very  strong  man,  Kwasind,  — 
And  of  happiness  and  plenty 
In  the  land  of  the  Ojibways, 
In  the  pleasant  land  and  peaceful. 


JOHN   GREENLEAF  WHITTIER.  67 

"  After  many  years  of  warfare, 
Many  years  of  strife  and  bloodshed, 
There  is  peace  between  the  Ojibways 
And  the  tribe  of  the  Dacotahs." 
Thus  continued  Hiawatha ; 
And  then  added,  speaking  slowly, 
"  That  this  peace  may  last  for  ever, 
And  our  hands  be  clasped  more  closely, 
And  our  hearts  be  more  united, 
Give  me  as  my  wife  this  maiden, 
Minnehaha,  Laughing  Water, 
Loveliest  of  Dacotah  women." 

And  the  ancient  arrow-maker 
Paused  a  moment  ere  he  answered, 
Smoked  a  little  while  in  silence, 
Looked  at  Hiawatha  proudly, 
Fondly  looked  at  Laughing  Water, 
And  made  answer  very  gravely  : 
"  Yes,  if  Minnehaha  wishes  : 
Let  your  heart  speak,  Minnehaha." 

And  the  lovely  Laughing  Water 
Seemed  more  lovely  as  she  stood  there, 
Neither  willing  nor  reluctant, 
As  she  went  to  Hiawatha, 
Softly  took  the  seat  beside  him, 
While  she  said,  and  blushed  to  say  it, 
"  I  will  follow  you,  my  husband." 

This  was  Hiawatha's  wooing  : 
Thus  it  was  he  won  the  daughter 
Of  the  ancient  arrow-maker, 
In  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs. 


JOHN    GREENLEAF    WHITTIER 

BORN  1808,  NEAR  HAVERHIIX,  MASS. 

Mr.  Whittier,  the  Quaker  Poet,  has  lived  in  Amesbury  since  1840.  As  editor  of 
"  The  New-England  Weekly  Review,"  "  Pennsylvania  Review,"  and  contributor  to 
"  The  National  Era  "  and  "'  The  Atlantic  Monthly,"  he  has  everywhere  devoted  him- 
self to  the  cause  of  truth  and  justice.  No  poet  has  spoken  with  more  tenderness  for 
humanity,  or  waged  war  more  constantly  and  more  defiantly  with  error  and 
oppression.  His  intense  hatred  of  wrong,  and  inexhaustible  sympathy  for  struggling 
manhood,  are  always  expressed  with  remarkable  force  and  beauty  in  his  prose  and 
poetry. 

PRINCIPAL     PRODUCTIONS. 

"  Mogg  Megom,"  1836 ;  "  Tent  on  the  Beach ; "  "  Voices  of  Freedom ;  "  «  Barefoot 
Bov; "  "  Old  Portraits  and  Modern  Sketches;  "  "  Songs  of  Labor,  and  Other  Poems; " 
"  Snowbound."  Poems  in  three  volumes,  or  complete  in  one. 


68  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


THE  ETERNAL   GOODNESS. 

0  FRIENDS  with  whom  my  feet  have  trod 
The  quiet  aisles  of  prayer  ! 

Glad  witness  to  your  zeal  for  God 
And  love  of  man  I  bear. 

1  trace  your  lines  of  argument : 
Your  logic,  linked  and  strong, 

I  weigh  as  one  who  dreads  dissent, 
And  fears  a  doubt  as  wrong. 

But  still  my  human  hands  are  weak 

To  hold  your  iron  creeds  : 
Against  the  words  ye  bid  me  speak 

My  heart  within  me  pleads. 

Who  fathoms  the  Eternal  Thought  ? 

Who  talks  of  scheme  and  plan  ? 
The  Lord  is  God  :  he  needeth  not 

The  poor  device  of  man. 

I  walk,  with  bare,  hushed  feet,  the  ground 
Ye  tread  with  boldness  shod  : 

I  dare  not  fix  with  mete  and  bound 
The  love  and  power  of  God. 

Ye  praise  his  justice :  even  such 

His  pitying  love  I  deem. 
Ye  seek  a  king :  I  fain  would  touch 

The  robe  that  hath  no  seam. 

Ye  see  the  curse  which  overbroods 

A  world  of  pain  and  loss  : 
I  hear  our  Lord's  beatitudes, 

And  prayer  upon  the  cross. 

More  than  your  schoolmen  teach,  within 

Myself,  alas  !  I  know  : 
Too  dark  ye  can  not  paint  the  sin, 

Too  small  the  merit  show. 

I  bow  my  forehead  to  the  dust ; 

I  vail  mine  eyes  for  shame  ; 
And  urge,  in  trembling  self<listrust, 

A  prayer  without  a  claim. 

I  see  the  wrong  that  round  me  lies ; 

I  feel  the  guilt  within  ; 
I  hear,  with  groan  and  travail-cries, 

The  world  confess  its  sin. 


JOHN   GKEENLEAF   WHITTIEB.  69 

Yet,  in  the  maddening  maze  of  tilings, 

And  tossed  by  storm  and  flood, 
To  one  fixed  stake  my  spirit  clings : 

I  know  that  God  is  good. 

Not  mine  to  look  where  cherubim 

And  seraphs  may  not  see ; 
But  nothing  can  be  good  in  him 

Which  evil  is  in  me. 

The  wrong  that  pains  my  soul  below 

I  dare  not  throne  above. 
I  know  not  of  his  hate  :  I  know 

His  goodness  and  his  love. 

I  dimly  guess,  from  blessings  known, 

Of  greater  out  of  sight ; 
And,  with  the  chastened  Psalmist,  own 

His  judgments,  too,  are  right. 

I  long  for  household  voices  gone  ; 

For  vanished  smiles  I  long : 
But  God  hath  led  my  dear  ones  on, 

And  he  can  do  no  wrong. 

I  know  not  what  the  future  hath 

Of  marvel  or  surprise, 
Assured  alone  that  life  and  death 

His  mercy  underlies. 

And,  if  my  heart  and  flesh  are  weak 

To  bear  an  untried  pain, 
The  bruised  reed  he  will  not  break, 

But  strengthen  and  sustain. 

No  offering  of  my  own  I  have, 

Nor  works  my  faith  to  prove  : 
I  can  but  give  the  gifts  he  gave, 

And  plead  his  love  for  love. 

And  so  beside  the  silent  sea 

I  wait  the  muffled  oar  : 
No  harm  from  him  can  come  to  me 

On  ocean  or  on  shore. 

I  know  not  where  his  islands  lift 

Their  fronded  palms  in  air  : 
I  only  know  I  can  not  drift 

Beyond  his  love  and  care. 

O  brothers  !  if  my  faith  is  vain, 

If  hopes  like  these  betray, 
Pray  for  me  that  my  feet  may  gain 

The  sure  and  safer  way. 


70  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

And  thou,  O  Lord  !  by  whom  are  seen 
Thy  creatures  as  they  be, 

Forgive  me  if  too  close  I  lean 
My  human  heart  on  thee. 


THE  ANGELS    OF    BUENA    VISTA. 

u  SPEAK  and  tell  us,  our  Ximena,  looking  northward  far  away 
O'er  the  camp  of  the  invaders,  o'er  the  Mexican  array, 
Who  is  losing?  who  is  winning?    Are  they  far?  or  come  they  near? 
Look  abroad,  and  tell  us,  sister,  whither  rolls  the  storm  we  hear." 

"  Down  the  hills  of  Angostura  still  the  storm  of  battle  rolls. 

Blood  is  flowing ;  men  are  dying  :   God  have  mercy  on  their  souls  !  " 

"  Who  is  losing  ?  who  is  winning  ?  "  —  "  Over  hill  and  over  plain 

I  see  but  smoke  of  cannon  clouding  through  the  mountain-rain." 

"  Holy  Mother,  keep  our  brothers !     Look,  Ximena  !  look  once  more  !  " 
"  Still  I  see  the  fearful  whirlwind  rolling  darkly  as  before, 
Bearing  on  in  strange  confusion  friend  and  foeman,  foot  and  horse, 
Like   some   wild  and  troubled  torrent   sweeping  down  its   mountain- 
course." 

"  Look  forth  once  more,  Ximena !  "  —  "  Ah !  the  smoke  has  rolled  away ; 
And  I  see  the  Northern  rifles  gleaming  down  the  ranks  of  gray. 
Hark !  that  sudden  blast  of  bugles !  there  the  troop  of  Minon  wheels  ; 
There  the  Northern  horses  thunder  with  the  cannon  at  their  heels. 

"  Jesu,  pity !  how  it  thickens  !  now  retreat,  and  now  advance  ! 
Right  against  the  blazing  cannon  shivers  Puebla's  charging  lance ! 
Down  they  go,  the  brave  young  riders ;  horse  and  foot  together  fall : 
Like  a  plowshare  in  the  fallow  through  them  plows  the  Northern  ball." 

"Nearer  came  the  storm,  and  nearer,  rolling  fast  and  frightful  on. 
"  Speak,  Ximena,  speak,  and  tell  us  who  has  lost  and  who  has  won." 
"  Alas,  alas  !  I  know  not :  friend  and  foe  together  fall  : 
O'er  the  dying  rush  the  living  :  pray,  my  sisters,  for  them  all ! 

II  Lo !  the  wind  the  smoke  is  lifting.     Blessed  Mother,  save  my  brain ! 
I  can  see  the  wounded  crawling  slowly  out  from  heaps  of  slain. 

Now  they  stagger,  blind  and  bleeding ;  now  they  fall,  and  strive  to  rise : 
Hasten,  sisters,  haste  and  save  them,  lest  they  die  before  our  eyes ! 

"  O  my  heart's  love  !  O  my  dear  one  !  lay  thy  poor  head  on  my  knee  : 
Dost  thou  know  the  lips  that  kiss  thee  ?     Canst  thou  hear  me  ?  canst 

thou  see  ? 

O  my  husband,  brave  and  gentle  !  O  my  Bernal !  look  once  more 
On  the  blessed  cross  before  thee !     Mercy,  mercy !  all  is  o'er !  " 


JOHN   GREENLEAF   WHITTIER.  71 

"  Drv  thy  tears,  my  poor  Ximena  ;  lay  thy  dear  one  down  to  rest  ; 
Let  his  hands  be  meekly  folded  ;  lay  the  cross  upon  his  breast  : 
Let  his  dirge  be  sung  hereafter,  and  his  funeral  masses  said  : 
To-day,  thou  poor  bereaved  one,  the  living  ask  thy  aid." 

Close  beside  her,  faintly  moaning,  fair  and  young,  a  soldier  lay, 
Torn  with  shot  and  pierced  with  lances,  bleeding  slow  his  life  away  ; 
But,  as  tenderly  before  him  the  lorn  Ximena  knelt, 
She  saw  the  Northern  eagle  shining  on  his  pistol-belt. 

With  a  stifled  cry  of  horror  straight  she  turned  away  her  head  ; 

With  a  sad  and  bitter  leeling  looked  she  back  upon  her  dead  : 

But  she  heard  the  youth's  low  moaning,  and  his  struggling  breath  of 

pain  ; 
And  she  raised  the  cooling  water  to  his  parching  lips  again. 

Whispered  low  the  dying  soldier,  pressed  her  hand,  and  faintly  smiled  : 
Was  that  pitying  face  his  mother's  ?  did  she  watch  beside  her  child  ? 
All  his  stranger  words  with  meaning  her  woman's  heart  supplied  : 
With  her  kiss  upon  his  forehead,  "  Mother  !  "  murmured  he,  and  died. 

"  A  bitter  curse  upon  them,  poor  boy,  who  led  thee  forth 
From  some  gentle  sad-eyed  mother,  weeping  lonely  in  the  North  !  " 
Spake  the  mournful  Mexic  woman,  as  she  laid  him  with  her  dead, 
And  turned  to  soothe  the  living,  and  bind  the  wounds  which  bled. 

"  Look  forth  once  more,  Ximena  !  "  —  "  Like  a  cloud  before  the  wind 
Rolls  the  battle  down  the  mountains,  leaving  blood  and  death  behind. 
Ah  !  they  plead  in  vain  for  mercy  ;  in  the  dust  the  wounded  strive  : 
Hide  your  faces,  holy  angels  !  O  thou  Christ  of  God,  forgive  !  " 

Sink,  O  Night  !  among  thy  mountains  ;  let  the  cool  gray  shadows  fall  ; 
Dying  brothers,  fighting  demons,  —  drop  thy  curtain  over  all  ! 
Through  the  thickening  winter  twilight,  wide  apart  the  battle  rolled  : 
In  its  sheath  the  saber  rested,  and  the  cannon's  lips  grew  cold. 

But  the  noble  Mexic  women  still  their  holy  task  pursued  : 

Through  that  long,  dark  night  of  sorrow,  worn  and  faint,  and  lacking 

food, 

Over  weak  and  suffering  brothers  with  a  tender  care  they  hung  ; 
And  the  dying  foeman  blessed  them  in  a  strange  and  Northern  tongue. 


Not  wholly  lost,  O  Father  !  is  this  evil  world  of  ^ 
Upward  through  its  blood  and  ashes  spring  afresh  the  Eden  flowers  ; 
From  its  smoking  hell  of  battle,  Love  and  Pity  send  their  prayer  ; 
And  still  thy  white-winged  angels  hover  dimly  in  our  air. 


72  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


THE    BAREFOOT    BOY. 

BLESSINGS  on  thee,  little  man, 
Barefoot  boy,  with  cheek  of  tan ; 
With  thy  turned-up  pantaloons, 
And  thy  merry  whistled  tunes  ; 
With  thy  red  lip,  redder  still 
Kissed  by  strawberries  on  the  hill ; 
With  the  sunshine  on  thy  face 
Through  thy  torn  brim's*  jaunty  grace  1 
From  my  heart  I  give  thee  joy  : 
I  was  once  a  barefoot  boy. 
Prince  thou  art :  the  grown-up  man 
Only  is  republican. 
Let  the  million-dollared  ride  : 
Barefoot,  trudging  at  his  side, 
Thou  hast  more  than  he  can  buy 
In  the  reach  of  ear  and  eye,  — 
Outward  sunshine,  inward  joy. 
Blessings  on  thee,  barefoot  boy  ! 

Oh  for  boyhood's  painless  play, 
Sleep  that  wakes  in  laughing  day, 
Health  that  mocks  the  doctor's  rules, 
Knowledge  never  learned  of  schools,  — 
Of  the  wild  bee's  morning  chase  ; 
Of  the  wild-flower's  time  and  place; 
Flight  of  fowl,  and  habitude 
Of  the  tenants  of  the  wood ; 
How  the  tortoise  bears  his  shell ; 
How  the  woodchuck  digs  his  cell ; 
And  the  ground-mole  sinks  his  well ; 
How  the  robin  feeds  her  young ; 
How  the  oriole's  nest  is  hung ; 
Where  the  whitest  lilies  blow  ; 
Where  the  freshest  berries  grow ; 
Where  the  groundnut  trails  its  vine ; 
Where  the  wood-grape's  clusters  shine ; 
Of  the  black  wasp's  cunning  way, 
Mason  of  his  walls  of  clay ; 
And  the  architectural  plans 
Of  gray  hornet  artisans ! 
For,  eschewing  books  and  tasks, 
Nature  answers  all  he  asks. 
Hand  in  hand  with  her  he  walks, 
Face  to  face  with  her  he  talks, 
Part  and  parcel  of  her  joy  : 
Blessings  on  the  barefoot'boy ! 

Oh  for  boyhood's  time  of  June, 
Crowding  years  in  one  brief  moon,. 
When  alf  things  I  heard  or  saw, 
Me,  their  master,  waited  ibr ! 


JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER.  73 

I  was  rich  in  flowers  and  trees, 
Humming-birds  and  honey-bees; 
For  my  sport  the  squirrel  played, 
Plied  the  snouted  mole  his  spade; 
For  my  taste  the  blackberry-cone 
Purpled  over  hedge  and  stone ; 
Laughed  the  brook  for  my  delight 
Through  the  day  and  through  the  night, 
Whispering  at  the  garden-wall, 
Talked  with  me  from  fall  to  fall ; 
Mine  the  sand-rimmed  pickerel-pond  j 
Mine  the  walnut-slopes  beyond  ; 
Mine,  on  bending  orchard-trees, 
Apples  of  Hesperides  I 
Still,  as  my  horizon  grew, 
Larger  grew  my  riches  too: 
All  the  world  I  saw  or  knew 
Seemed  a  complex  Chinese  toy, 
Fashioned  for  a  barefoot  boy. 

Oh  for  festal  dainties  spread, 
Like  my  bowl  of  milk  and  bread, 
(Pewter  spoon,  and  bowl  of  wood,) 
On  the  door-stone  gray  and  rude  1 
O'er  me,  like  a  regal  tent, 
Cloudy-ribbed,  the  sunset  bent, 
Purple-curtained,  fringed  with  gold, 
Looped  in  many  a  wind-swung  Ibid ; 
While  for  music  came  the  play 
Of  the  pied  frogs'  orchestra, 
And  to  light  the  noisy  choir 
Lit  the  fly  his  lamp  of  fire. 
I  was  monarch  :  pomp  and  joy 
Waited  on  the  barefoot  boy. 

Cheerily,  then,  my  little  man, 
Live  and  laugh,  as  boyhood  can. 
Though  the  flinty  slopes  be  hard, 
Stubble-speared  the  new-mown  sward, 
Every  morn  shall  lead  thee  through 
Fresh  baptisms  of  the  dew ; 
Every  evening,  from  thy  feet 
Shall  the  cool  wind  kiss  the  heat: 
All  too  soon  these  feet  must  hide 
In  the  prison-cells  of  pride  ; 
Lose  the  freedom  of  the  sod ; 
Like  a  colt's,  for  work  be  shod  ; 
Made  to  tread  the  mills  of  toil, 
Up  and  down  in  ceaseless  moil. 
Happy  if  their  track  be  found 
Never  on  forbidden  ground ; 


74  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

Happy  if  they  sink  not  in 
Quick  and  treacherous  sands  of  sin. 
Ah  that  thou  couldst  Jcnow  thy  joy 
Ere  it  passes,  barefoot  boy  1 


SNOW-BOUND. 

THE  sun  that  brief  December  day 

Rose  cheerless  over  hills  of  gray, 

And,  darkly  cm-led,  gave  at  noon 

A  sadder  light  than  waning  moon. 

Slow  tracing  down  the  thickening  sky 

Its  mute  and  ominous  prophecy, 

A  portent  seeming  less  than  threat, 

It  sank  from  sight  before  it  set. 

A  chill  no  coat,  however  stout, 

Of  homespun  stuff,  could  quite  shut  out, 

A  hard,  dull  bitterness  of  cold, 

That  checked,  mid-vein,  the  circling  race 

Of  life-blood  in  the  sharpened  facer 

The  coming  of  the  snow-storm  told. 

The  wind  blew  east :  we  heard  the  roar 

Of  Ocean  on  his  wintry  shore, 

And  felt  the  strong  pulse  throbbing  there 

Beat  with  low  rhythm  our  inland  air. 

Meanwhile  we  did  onr  nightly  chores,  — 
Brought  in  the  wood  from  out  of  doors  ; 
Littered  the  stalls,  and  from  the  mows 
Raked  down  the  herds-grass  for  the  cows  ; 
Heard  the  horse  whinnying  for  his  corn ; 
And,  sharply  clashing  horn  on  horn, 
Impatient  down  the  stanchion  rows 
The  cattle  shake  their  walnut-bows ; 
While,  peering  from  his  early  perch 
Upon  the  scaffold's  pole  of  birch, 
The  cock  his  crested  helmet  bent, 
And  down  his  querulous  challenge  sent. 

Unwarmed  by  any  sunset  light, 

The  gray  day  darkened  into  night,  — 

A  night  made  hoary  with  the  swarm 

And  whirl-dance  of  the  blinding  storm, 

As  zigzag  wavering  to  and  fro 

Crossed  and  recrossed  the  winged  snow  ; 

And,  ere  the  early  bedtime  came, 

The  white  drift  piled  the  window-frame ; 

And  through  the  sjlass  the  clothes-line  posts 

Looked  in  "like  tall  and  sheeted  ghosts. 


JOHN   GREENLEAF  WHITTIER.  75 

So  all  night  long  the  storm  roared  on  : 

The  morning  broke  without  a  sun. 

In  tiny  spherule  traced  with  lines 

Of  Nature's  geometric  signs, 

In  starry  flake  and  pellicle, 

All  day  the  hoary  meteor  fell ; 

And,  when  the  second  morning  shone, 

We  looked  upon  a  world  unknown,  — 

On  nothing  we  could  call  our  own. 

Around  the  glistening  wonder  bent 

The  blue  walls  of  the  firmament ; 

No  cloud  above,  no  earth  below,  — 

A  universe  of  sky  and  snow ! 

The  old  familiar  sights  of  ours 

Took  marvelous  shapes  ;  strange  domes  and  towers 

Rose  up  where  sty  or  corn-crib  stood, 

Or  garden  wall,  or  belt  of  wood  ; 

A  smooth  white  mound  the  brush-pile  showed  ; 

A  fenceless  drift  what  once  was  road ; 

The  bridle-post  an  old  man  sat, 

With  loose-flung  coat  and  high  cocked  hat ; 

The  well-curb  had  a  Chinese  roof; 

And  even  the  long  sweep,  high  aloof, 

In  its  slant  splendor  seemed  to  tell 

Of  Pisa's  leaning  miracle. 

A  prompt,  decisive  man,  no  breath 
Our  father  wasted  :  "  Boys,  a  path  !  " 
Well  pleased,  (for  when  did  farmer-boy 
Count  such  a  summons  less  than  joy  V) 
Our  buskins  on  our  feet  we  drew. 
With  mittened  hands,  and  caps  drawn  low 
To  guard  our  necks  and  ears  from  snow, 
We  cut  the  solid  whiteness  through  ; 
And,  where  the  drift  was  deepest,  made 
A  tunnel  walled  and  overlaid 
With  dazzling  crystal.     We  had  read 
Of  rare  Aladdin's  wondrous  cave ; 
And  to  our  own  his  name  we  gave, 
With  many  a  wish  the  luck  were  ours 
To  test  his  lamp's  supernal  powers. 
We  reached  the  barn  with  merry  din, 
And  roused  the  prisoned  brutes  within. 
The  old  horse  thrust  his  long  head  out, 
And,  grave  with  wonder,  gazed  about ; 
The  cock  his  lusty  greeting  said, 
And  forth  his  speckled  harem  led  ; 
The  oxen  lashed  their  tails,  and  hooked, 
And  mild  reproach  of  hunger  looked  ; 
The  horned  patriarch  of  the  sheep, 
Like  Egypt's  Amun  roused  from  sleep, 
Shook  his  sage  head  with  gesture  mute, 
And  emphasized  with  stamp  of  foot. 


76  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

All  day  the  gusty  north  wind  bore 

The  loosening  drift  its  breath  before ; 

Low  circling  round  its  southern  zone, 

The  sun  through  dazzling  snow-mist  shone. 

No  church-bell  lent  its  Christian  tone 

To  the  savage  air,  no  social  smoke 

Curled  over  woods  of  snow-hung  oak,  — 

A  solitude  made  more  intense 

By  dreary-voiced  elements, 

The  shrieking  of  the  mindless  wind, 

The  moaning  tree-boughs  swaying  blind, 

And  on  the  glass  the  unmeaning  beat 

Of  ghostly  finger-tips  of  sleet. 

Beyond  the  circle  of  our  hearth 

No  welcome  sound  of  toil  or  mirth 

Unbound  the  spell,  and  testified 

Of  human  life  and  thought  outside. 

We  minded  that  the  sharpest  ear 

The  buried  brooklet  could  not  hear, 

The  music  of  whose  liquid  lip 

Had  been  to  us  companionship, 

And  in  our  lonely  life  had  grown 

To  have  ah  almost  human  tone. 

As  night  drew  on,  and  from  the  crest 
Of  wooded  knolls  that  ridged  the  west, 
The  sun,  a  snow-blown  traveler,  sank 
From  sight  beneath  the  smothering  bank, 
We  piled  with  care  our  nightly  stack 
Of  wood  against  the  chimney-back,  — 
The  oaken  log,  green,  huge,  and  thick, 
And  on  its  top'  the  stout  back-stick ; 
The  knotty  forestick  laid  apart, 
And  filled* between  with  curious  art 
The  ragged  brush  ;  then,  hovering  near, 
We  watched  the  first  red  blaze  appear, 
Heard  the  sharp  crackle,  caught  the  gleam 
On  whitewashed  wall  and  sagging  beam, 
Until  the  old,  rude-furnished  room 
Burst,  flower-like,  into  rosy  bloom  ; 
While  radiant  with  a  mimic  flame 
Outside  the  sparkling  drift  became, 
And  through  the  bare-boughed  lilac-tree 
Our  own  warm  hearth  seemed  blazing  free. 
The  crane  and  pendent  trammels  showed ; 
The  Turks'  heads  on  the  andirons  glowed ; 
While  childish  fancy,  prompt  to  tell 
The  meaning  of  the  miracle, 
Whispered  the  old  rhyme  :  "Under  the  tree, 
When  jire  outdoors  burns  merrily, 
There  the  witches  are  making  tea." 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES.  77 

The  moon  above  the  eastern  wood 

Shone  at  its  lull ;  the  hill-range  stood 

Transfigured  in  the  silver  flood, 

Its  blown  snows  flashing  cold  and  keen, 

Dead-white,  save  where  some  sharp  ravine 

Took  shadow,  or  the  somber  green 

Of  hemlocks  turned  to  pitchy  black 

Against  the  whiteness  at  their  back. 

For  such  a  world  and  such  a  night 

Most  fitting  that  unwarming  light, 

Which  only  seemed,  where'er  it  fell, 

To  make  the  coldness  visible.  [Lines  1  to  154. 


OLIVER   WENDELL   HOLMES,   M.D. 

BORN  AUG.  29,    1809,  CAMBRIIKSE,  MASS. 

Popular  writer  of  prose  and  poetry.      Author  of  "Autocrat   of  the   Breakfast- 
Table,"  "Elsie  Veuner,"  and  "  The  Guardian  Angel."    Poems  in  two  volumes. 


EXTRACT   FROM  POETRY:   A    METRICAL   ESSAY. 

SOME  prouder  Muse,  when  comes  the  hour  at  last, 
May  shake  our  hillsides  with  her  bugle-blast : 
Not  ours  the  task.     But,  since  the  lyric  dress 
Relieves  the  statelier  with  its  sprightliness, 
Hear  an  old  song,  which  some,  perchance,  have  seen 
In  stale  gazette,  or  cobwebbed  magazine. 
There  was  an  hour  when  patriots  dared  profane 
The  mast  that  Britain  strove  to  bow  in  vain ; 
And  one  who  listened  to  the  tale  of  shame, 
Whose  heart  still  answered  to  that  sacred  name, 
Whose  eye  still  followed  o'er  his  country's  tides 
Thy  glorious  flag,  our  brave  "  Old  Ironsides  1 " 
From  yon  lone  attic,  on  a  summer's  morn, 
Thus  mocked  the  spoilers  with  his  schoolboy  scorn :  — 

Ay,  tear  her  tattered  ensign  down ! 

Long  has  it  waved  on  high  ; 
And  many  an  eye  has  danced  to  see 

That  banner  in  the  sky. 
Beneath  it  rung  the  battle-shout, 

And  burst  the  cannon's  roar : 
The  meteor  of  the  ocean-air 

Shall  sweep  the  clouds  no  more  I 


78  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Her  deck,  once  red  with  heroes'  blood, 

Where  knelt  the  vanquished  ibe, 
When  winds  were  hurrying  o'er  the  flood, 

And  waves  were  white  below, 
No  more  shall  feel  the  victor's  tread, 

Or  know  the  conquered  knee : 
The  harpies  of  the  shore  shall  pluck 

The  eagle  of  the  sea  ! 

Oh  !  better  that  her  shattered  hulk 

Should  sink  beneath  the  wave : 
Her  thunders  shook  the  mighty  deep, 

And  there  should  be  her  grave. 
Nail  to  the  mast  her  holy  flag ; 

Set  every  threadbare  safl ; 
And  give  her  to  the  god  of  storms, 

The  lightning  and  the  gale  1 


THE   LAST  LEAF. 

I  SAW  him  once  before 
As  he  passed  by  the  door; 

And  again 

The  pavement-stones  resound 
As  he  totters  o'er  the  ground 

With  his  cane. 

They  say,  that  in  his  prime. 
Ere  the  pruning-knife  of  Time 

Cut  hiuj  down, 
Not  a  better  man  was  found 
By  the  crier  on  his  round 

Through  the  town. 

But  now  he  walks  the  streets, 
And  he  looks  at  all  he  meets, 

Sad  and  wan ; 

And  he  shakes  his  feeble  head, 
That  it  seems  as  if  he  said, 

"  They  are  gone  !  " 

The  mossy  marbles  rest 

On  the  lips  that  he  has  prest 

In  their  bloom ; 

And  the  names  he  loved  to  hear 
Have  been  carved  for  many  a  year 

On  the  tomb. 

M\  grandmamma  has  said,  — 
Poor  old  lady  !  she  is  dead 
Long  ago,  — 


, 


OLIVEPw.  WENDELL   HOLMES.  79 

Tli at  ho  had  a  Roman  nose, 
And  his  cheek  was  like  a  rose 
In  the  snow. 

But  now  his  nose  is  thin, 
And  it  rests  upon  his  chin 

Like  a  staff; 

And  a  crook  is  in  his  back, 
And  a  melancholy  crack 
In  his  laugh. 

I  know  it  is  a  sin 
For  me  to  sit  and  grin 

At  him  here; 

But  the  old  three-cornered  hat, 
And  the  breeches,  and  all  that, 

Are  so  queer  1 

And,  if  I  should  live  to  be 
The  last  leaf  upon  the  tree 

In  the  spring, 

Let  them  smile,  as  I  do  now, 
At  the  old  forsaken  bough 
.  Where  I  cling. 


EXTRACT  FROM  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF.  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

I  WAS  just  going  to  say,  when  I  was  interrupted,  that  one  of 
the  many  ways  of  classifying  minds  is  under  the  heads  of  arith- 
metical and  algebraical  intellects.  All  economical  and  practical 
wisdom  is  an  extension  or  variation  of  the  following  arithmetical 
formula  :  2-j-2=4.  Every  philosophical  proposition  has  the  more 
general  character  of  the  expression  a-\-b= c.  We  are  mere  opera- 
tives, empirics,  and  egotists,  until  we  learn  to  think  in  letters  in- 
stead of  figures. 

They  all  stared.  There  is  a  divinity-student  lately  come  among 
us,  to  whom  I  commonly  address  remarks  like  the  above,  allowing 
him  to  take  a  certain  share  in  the  conversation,  so  far  as  assent 
or  pertinent  questions  are  involved.  He  abused  his  libert}^  on 
this  occasion  by  presuming  to  say  that  Leibnitz  had  the  same  ob- 
servation. "  No,  sir,"  I  replied,  "  he  has  not.  But  he  said  a  mighty 
good  thing  about  mathematics,  that  sounds  something  like  it;  and 
you  found  it,  not  in  the  original,  but  quoted  by  Dr.  Thomas  Reid. 
I  will  tell  the  company  what  he  did  say,  one  of  these  days." 

If  I  belong  to  a  Society  of  Mutual  Admiration  ?  —  I 

blush  to  say  that  I  do  not  at  this  present  moment.  I  once  did, 
however.  It  was  the  first  association  to  which  I  ever  heard  the 


80  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

term  applied,  —  a  body  of  scientific  young  men  in  a  great  foreign 
city  who  admired  their  teacher,  and,  to  some  extent,  each  other. 
Many  of  them  deserved  it :  they  have  become  famous  since.  It 
amuses  me  to  hear  the  talk  of  one  of  those  beings  described  by 
Thackeray  — 

"  Letters  four  do  form  his  name  "  — 

about  a  social  development  which  belongs  to  the  very  noblest 
stage  of  civilization.  All  generous  companies  of  artists,  authors, 
philanthropists,  men  of  science,  are,  or  ought  to  be,  Societies  of 
Mutual  Admiration.  A  man  of  genius,  or  any  kind  of  superi- 
ority, is  not  debarred  from  admiring  the  same  quality  in  another, 
nor  the  other  from  returning  his  admiration.  They  may  even 
associate  together,  and  continue  to  think  highly  of  each  other. 
And  so  of  a  dozen  such  men,  if  any  one  place  is  fortunate  enough 
to  hold  so  many.  The  being  referred  to  above  assumes  several 
false  premises.  First,  That  men  of  talent  necessarily  hate  each 
other.  Secondly,  That  intimate  knowledge  or  habitual  associa- 
tion destroys  our  admiration  of  persons  whom  we  esteemed  high- 
ly at  a  distance.  Thirdly,  That  a  circle  of  clever  fellows,  who 
meet  together  to  dine  and  have  a  good  time,  have  signed  a  con- 
stitutional compact  to  glorify  themselves,  a*nd  to  put  down  him 
and  the  fraction  of  the  human  race  not  belonging  to  their  num- 
ber. Fourthly,  That  it  is  an  outrage  that  he  is  not  asked  to  join 
them. 

Here  the  company  laughed  a  good  deal;  and  the  old  gentleman 
who  sits  opposite  said,  "That's  it !  that's  it ! " 

I  continued ;  for  I  was  in  the  talking  vein.  As  to  clever  peo- 
ple's hating  each  other,  I  think  a  little  extra  talent  does  some- 
times make  people  jealous.  They  become  irritated  by  perpetual 
attempts  and  failures,  and  it  hurts  their  tempers  and  dispositions. 
Unpretending  mediocrity  is  good,  and  genius  is  glorious;  but  a 
weak  flavor  of  genius  in  an  essentially  common  person  is  detesta- 
ble. It  spoils  the  grand  neutrality  of  a  commonplace  character, 
as  the  rinsings  of  an  unwashed  wineglass  spoil  a  draught  of  fair 
water.  Xo  wonder  the  poor  fellow  we  spoke  of,  who  always  be- 
longs to  this  class  of  slightly-flavored  mediocrities,  is  puzzled  and 
vexed  by  the  strange  sight  of  a  dozen  men  of  capacity  working 
and  playing  together  in  harmony.  He  and  his  fellows  are  always 
fighting.  With  them,  familiarity  naturally  breeds  contempt.  If 
they  ever  praise  each  other's  bad  drawings,  or  broken- winded 
novels,  or  spavined  verses,  nobody  ever  supposed  it  was  from  ad- 
miration :  it  was  simply  a  contract  between  themselves  and  a 
publisher  or  dealer. 

If  the  Mutuals  have  really  nothing  among  them  worth  admir- 
ing, that  alters  the  question.  But,  if  they  are  men  with  noble 


OLIVER   WENDELL   HOLMES.  81 

powers  and  qualities,  let  me  tell  you,  that,  next  to  youthful  love 
and  family  affections,  there  is  no  human  sentiment  better  than 
that  which  unites  the  Societies  of  Mutual  Admiration.  And 
what  would  literature  or  art  be  without  such  associations  ?  Who 
can  tell  what  we  owe  to  the  Mutual  Admiration  Society  of  which 
Shakspeare,  and  Ben  Jonson,  and  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  were 
members?  or  to  that  of  which  Addison  and  Steele  formed  the 
center,  and  which  gave  us  "The  Spectator"?  or  to  that  where 
Johnson  and  Goldsmith  and  Burke  and  Reynolds  and  Beau- 
clerc  and  Boswell,  most  admiring  among  all  admirers,  met  to- 
gether ?  Was  there  any  great  harm  in  the  fact  that  the  Irvings 
and  Paulding  wrote  in  company?  or  any  unpardonable  cabal  in 
the  literary  union  of  Verplanck  and  Bryant  and  Sands,  and  as 
many  more  as  they  chose  to  associate  with  them  ? 

The  poor  creature  does  not  know  what  he  is  talking  about 
when  he  abuses  this  noblest  of  institutions.  Let  him  inspect  its 
mysteries  through  the  knot-hole  he  has  secured,  but  not  use  that 
orifice  as  a  medium  for  his  popgun.  Such  a  society  is  the  crown 
of  a  literary  metropolis :  if  a  town  has  not  material  for  it,  and 
spirit  and  good  feeling  enough  to  organize  it,  it  is  a  mere  cara- 
vansary,—  fit  for  a  man  of  genius  to  lodge  in,  but  not  to  live  in. 
Foolish  people  hate  and  dread  and  envy  such  an  association  of 
men  of  varied  powers  and  influence  because  it  is  lofty,  serene, 
impregnable,  and,  by  the  necessity  of  the  case,  exclusive.  Wise 
ones  are  prouder  of  the  title  M.  S.  M.  A.  than  of  all  their  other 
honors  put  together. 

All  generous  minds  have  a  horror  of  what  are  commonly 

called  "facts."  They  are  the  brute  beasts  of  the  intellectual  do- 
main. Who  does  not  know  fellows  that  always  have  an  ill-con- 
ditioned fact  or  two  which  they  lead  after  them  into  decent  com- 
pany like  so  many  bull-dogs,  ready  to  let  them  slip  at  every 
ingenious  suggestion,  or  convenient  generalization,  or  pleasant 
fancy  ?  I  allow  no  "  facts "  at  this  table.  What !  because 
bread  is  good  and  wholesome  and  necessary  and  nourishing,  shall 
you  thrust  a  crumb  into  my  windpipe  while  I  am  talking?  Do 
not  these  muscles  of  mine  represent  a  hundred  loaves  of  bread  ? 
and  is  not  my  thought  the  abstract  of  ten  thousand  of  these 
crumbs  of  truth  with  which  you  would  choke  off  my  speech  ? 

[The  above  remark  must  be  conditioned  and  qualified  for  the 
vulgar  mind.  The  reader  will  of  course  understand  the  precise 
amount  of  seasoning  which  must  be  added  to  it  before  he  adopts 
it  as  one  of  the  axioms  of  his  life.  The  speaker  disclaims  all  re- 
sponsibility for  its  abuse  in  incompetent  hands.] 

This  business  of  conversation  is  a  very  serious  matter.  There 
are  men  that  it  weakens  one  to  talk  with  an  hour  more  than  a 
day's  fasting  would  do.  Mark  this  that  I  am  going  to  say  j  for 

6 


82  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

it  is  as  good  as  a  working  professional  man's  advice,  and  costs 
you  nothing :  It  is  better  to  lose  a  pint  of  blood  from  your  veins 
than  to  have  a  nerve  tapped.  Nobody  measures  your  nervous 
force  as  it  runs  away,  nor  bandages  your  brain  and  marrow  after 
the  operation. 

There  are  men  of  esprit  who  are  excessively  exhausting  to  some 
people.  They  are  the  talkers  who  have  what  may  be  called  jerky 
minds.  Their  thoughts  do  not  run  in  the  natural  order  of  se- 
quence. They  say  bright  things  on  all  possible  subjects;  but 
their  zigzags  rack  you  to  death.  After  a  jolting  half-hour  with 
one  of  these  jerky  companions,  talking  with  a  dull  friend  affords 
great  relief.  It  is  like  taking  the  cat  in  your  lap  after  holding  a 
squirrel. 

What  a  comfort  a  dull  but  kindly  person  is,  to  be  sure,  at 
times!  A  ground-glass  shade  over  a  gas-lamp  does  not  bring 
more  solace  to  our  dazzled  eyes  than  such  a  one  to  our  minds. 

"  Do  not  dull  people  bore  you  ?  "  said  one  of  the  lady-boarders, 
—  the  same  that  sent  me  her  autograph -book  last  week  with  a 
request  for  a  few  original  stanzas,  not  remembering  that  "  The 
Pucto]  ian"  pays  me  five  dollars  a  line  for  every  thing  I  write  in 
its  columns. 

"  Madam,"  said  I  (she  and  the  century  were  in  their  teens 
together),  "  all  men  are  bores,  except  when  we  want  them.  There 
never  was  but  one  man  whom  I  would  trust  with  my  latch-key." 

"  Who  might  that  favored  person  be  ?  n 

11  Zimmerman." 

The  men  of  genius  that  I  fancy  most  have  erectile  heads 

like  the  cobra-di-capelldt  You  remember  what  they  tell  of 
William  Pinkney,  the  great  pleader;  how,  in  his  eloquent  par- 
ox3^sms,  the  veins  of  his  neck  would  swell,  and  his  face  flush,  and 
his  eyes  glitter,  until  he  seemed  on  the  verge  of  apoplexy.  The 
hydraulic  arrangements  for  supplying  the  brain  with  blood  are 
only  second  in  importance  to  its  own  organization.  The  bul- 
bous-headed fellows  that  steam  well  when  they  are  at  work  are 
the  men  that  draw  big  audiences,  and  give  us  marrowy  books  and 
pictures.  It  is  a  good  sign  to  have  one's  feet  grow  cold  when  he 
is  writing.  A  great  writer  and  speaker  once  told  me  that  he  often 
wrote  with  his  feet  in  hot  water:  but  for  this,  all  his  blood  would 
have  run  into  his  head,  as  the  mercury  sometimes  withdraws  into 
the  ball  of  a  thermometer. 

You  don't  suppose  that  my  remarks  made   at  this  table 

are  like  so  many  postage-stamps,  do  you, — each  to  be  only  once 
uttered?  If  you  do,  you  are  mistaken.  He  must  be  a  poor 
creature  that  does  not  often  repeat  himself.  Imagine  the  author 
of  the  excellent  piece  of  advice,  "Know  thyself,"  never  alluding 
to  that  sentiment  again  during  the  course  of  a  protracted  exist- 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES.  83 

ence !  ~Why,  the  truths  a  man  carries  about  with  him  are  his 
tools  ;  and  do  you  think  a  carpenter  is  bound  to  use  the  same 
plane  but  once  to  smooth  a  knotty  board  with,  or  to  hang  up  his 
hammer  after  it  has  driven  its  first  nail  ?  I  shall  never  repeat  a 
conversation,  but  an  idea  often.  1  shall  use  the  same  types  when 
I  like,  but  not  commonly  the  same  stereotypes.  A  thought  is 
often  original,  though  you  have  uttered  it  a  hundred  times.  It 
has  come  to  you  over  a  new  route,  by  a  new  and  express  train 
of  associations. 

Sometimes,  but  rarely,  one  may  be  caught  making  the  same 
speech  twice  over,  and  yet  be  held  blameless.  Thus  a  certain 
lecturer,  after  performing  in  an  inland  city  where  dwells  a  lit- 
teratrice  of  note,  was  invited  to  meet  her  and  others  over  the 
social  teacup.  She  pleasantly  referred  to  his  many  wanderings 
in  his  new  occupation.  "  Yes,"  he  replied,  "  I  am  like  the  hurna, 
the  bird  that  never  lights,  being  always  in  the  cars,  as  he  is 
always  on  the  wing."  —  Years  elapsed.  The  lecturer  visited  the 
same  place  once  more  for  the  same  purpose.  Another  social  cup 
after  the  lecture,  and  a  second  meeting  with  the  distinguished 
Luly.  "  You  are  constantly  going  from  place  to  place,"  she  said. 
—  ••  Yes,"  he  answered,  "lam  like  the  huma," —  and  finished 
the  sentence  as  before. 

What  horrors,  when  it  flashed  over  him  that  he  had  made  this 
fine  speech,  word  for  word,  twice  over!  Yet  it  was  not  true,  as 
the  lady  might  perhaps  have  fairly  inferred,  that  he  had  embel- 
lished his  conversation  with  the  huma  daily  during  that  whole 
interval  of  years  :  on  the  contrary,  he  had  never  once  thought 
of  the  odious  fowl  until  the  recurrence  of  precisely  the  same  cir- 
cumstances brought  up  precisely  the  same  idea.  He  ought  to 
have  been  proud  of  the  accuracy  of  his  mental  adjustments. 
Given  certain  factors,  and  a  sound  brain  should  always  evolve 
the  same  fixed  product  with  the  certainty  of  Babbage's  calcu- 
lating-machine, ft 

What  a  satire,  by  the  way,  is  that  machine  on  the  mere 

mathematician!  —  a  Frankenstein-monster;  a  thing  without 
brains  and  without  heart,  too  stupid  to  make  a  blunder ;  that 
turns  out  results  like  a  corn-sheller,  and  never  grows  any  wiser 
or  better,  though  it  grind  a  thousand  bushels  of  them. 

I  have  an  immense  respect  for  a  man  of  talents  plus  "the 
mathematics."  But  the  calculating  power  alone  should  seem  to 
be  the  least  human  of  qualities,  and  to  have  the  smallest  amount 
of  reason  in  it;  since  a  machine  can  be  made  to  do  the  work  of 
three  or  four  calculators,  and  better  than  any  one  of  them. 
Sometimes  I  have  been  troubled  that  I  had  not  a  deeper  intuitive 
apprehension  of  the  relations  of  numbers.  But  the  triumph  of 
the  ciphering  hand-organ  has  consoled  me.  I  always  fancy  I  cq,n 


84  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

hear  the  wheels  clicking  in  a  calculator's  brain.  The  power  of 
dealing  with  numbers  is  a  kind  of  '•  detached-lever "  arrange- 
ment, which  may  be  put  into  a  mighty  poor  watch.  I  suppose  it 
is  about  as  common  as  the  power  of  moving  the  ears  voluntarily, 
which  is  a  moderately  rare  endowment. 

Little  localized  powers,  and  little  narrow  streaks  of  spe- 
cialized knowledge,  are  things  men  are  very  apt  to  be  conceited 
about.  Nature  is  very  wise  :  but  for  this  encouraging  principle, 
how  many  small  talents  and  little  accomplishments  would  be 
neglected !  Talk  about  conceit  as  much  as  you  like  :  it  is  to  hu- 
man character  what  suit  is  to  the  ocean  ;  it  keeps  it  sweet,  and 
renders  it  endurable.  Say,  rather,  it  is  like  the  natural  unguent 
of  the  sea-fowl's  plumage,  which  enables  him  to  shed  the  rain  that 
falls  on  him  and  the  wave  in  which  he  dips.  When  one  has  had 
all  his  conceit  taken  out  of  him,  when  he  has  lost  all  his  illu- 
sions, his  feathers  will  soon  soak  through,  and  lie  will  fly  no 
more. 

"So  you  admire  conceited  people,  do  yon?"  said  the  young 
lady  who  has  come  to  the  city  to  be  finished  off  for. —  the  duties 
of  life. 

I  am  afraid  you  do  not  study  logic  at  your  school,  my  dear. 
It  does  not  follow  that  I  wish  to  be  pickled  in  brine  because  I 
like  a  salt-water  plunge  at  Nahant.  I  say  that  conceit  is  just  as 
natural  a  thing  to  human  minds  as  a  center  is  to  a  circle.  But 
little-minded  people's  thoughts  move  in  such  small  circles,  that 
five  minutes7  conversation  gives  3*011  an  arc  long  enough  to  deter- 
mine their  whole  curve.  An  arc  in  the  movement  of  a  large 
intellect  does  not  sensibly  differ  from  a  straight  line.  Even  if 
it  have  the  third  vowel  as  its  center,  it  does  not  soon  betray  it. 
The  highest  thought,  that  is,  is  the  most  seemingly  impersonal: 
it  does  not  obviously  imply  any  individual  center. 

Audacious  self-esteem,  with  good  ground  for  it,  is  always  im- 
posing. What  resplendent  beauty  that-  must  have  been  which 
could  have  authorized  Phryne  to  "peel"  in  the  way  she  did! 
What  fine  speeches  are  those  two!  —  "Ifon  omnis  moriar"  and 
"  I  have  taken  all  knowledge  to  be  my  province."  .  .  . 

Did  I  not  say  to  you  a  little  while  ago  that  the  universe 
swam  in  an  ocean  of  similitudes  and  analogies?  I  will  not  quote 
Cowley  or  Burns  or  Wordsworth  just  now  to  show  you  what 
thoughts  were  suggested  to  them  by  the  simplest  natural  objects, 
such  as  a  flower  or  a  leaf;  but  I  will  read  3*011  a  few  lines,  if  3*011 
do  not  object,  suggested  by  looking  at  a  section  of  one  of  those 
chambered  shells  to  which  is  given  the  name  of  Pearly  Nautilus. 
We  need  not  trouble  ourselves  about  the  distinction  between  this 
and  the  Paper  Nautilus,  the  Argonauta  of  the  ancients.  The 


OLIVUR   WENDELL  HOLMES.  85 

name  applied  to  both  shows  that  each  has  long  been  compared  to 
a  ship,  as  you  may  see  more  fully  in  Webster's  Dictionary,  or  the 
"  Encyclopedia,"  to  which  he  refers.  If  you  will  look  into  Ko- 
get's  Bridgewater  Treatise,  you  will  find  a  figure  of  one  of  these 
shells,  and  a  section  of  it.  The  last  will  show  you  the  series  of 
enlarging  compartments  successively  dwelt  in  by  the  animal  that 
inhabits  the  shell,  which  is  built  in  a  widening  spiral.  Can  you 
find  no  lesson  in  this  ? 

THE   CHAMBERED  NAUTILUS. 

This  is  the  ship  of  pearl,  which,  poets  feign, 

Sails  the  unshadowed  main,  — 

The  venturous  bark  that  flings 
On  the  sweet  summer-wind  its  purpled  wings 
In  gulfs  enchanted,  where  the  siren  sings, 

And  coral  reefs  lie  bare ; 
Where  the  cold  sea-maids  rise  to  sun  their  streaming  hair. 

Its  webs  of  living  gauze  no  more  unfurl : 

Wrecked  is  the  ship  of  pearl; 

And  every  chambered  cell, 
Where  its  dini  dreaming  life  was  wont  to  dwell, 
As  the  frail  tenant  shaped  hi*  growing  shell, 

Before  thee  lies  revealed,  — 
Its  irised  ceiling  rent,  its  sunless  crypt  unsealed ! 

Year  after  year  beheld  the  silent  toil 

That  spread  his  lustrous  coil: 

Still,  as  the  spiral  grew, 
He  left  the  past  year's  dwelling  for  the  new; 
Stole  with  soft  step  its  shining  archway  through ; 

Built  up  its  idle  door; 
Stretched  in  his  last-found  home,  and  knew  the  old  no  more. 

Thanks  for  the  heavenly  message  brought  by  thee, 

Child  of  the  wandering  Sea, 

Cast  from  her  lap  forlorn  ! 
From  thy  dead  lips  a  clearer  note  is  born 
Than  ever  Triton  blew  from  wreathed  horn! 

While  on  mine  ear  it  rings, 
Through  the  deep  caves  of  thought  I  hear  a  voice  that  sings :  — 

"  Build  thee  more  stately  mansions,  0  my  soul! 

As  the  swift  seasons  roll; 

Leave  thy  low-vaulted  past,; 
Let  each  new  temple,  nobler  than  the  last, 
Shut  thee  from  heaven  with  a  dome  more  vast, 

Till  thou  at  length  art  free, 
Leaving  thine  outgrown  shell  by  Life's  unresting  sea !  " 


86  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

NATHANIEL   PAEKER  WILLIS. 

BORN  JAN.  20,  1807,  PORTLAND,  ME. 

"  Penciling*  by  the  Way,"  "  Inklings  of  Adventure,"  and  "  Letters  from  under 
a  Bridge,"  are  among  his  principal  prose-writings.  He  is  best  known  for  his  sacred 
poetry,  and  as  editor  of  "  The  Home  Journal." 

THE  DYING  ALCHEMIST. 

THE  night-wind  with  a  desolate  moan  swept  by, 
And  the  old  shutters  of  the  turret  swung 
Screaming  upon  their  hinges ;  and  the  moon, 
As  the  torn  edges  of  the  clouds  flew  past, 
Struggled  aslant  the  stained  and  broken  panes 
So  dimly,  that  the  watchful  eye  of  death 
Scarcely  was  conscious  when  it  went  and  came. 

The  fire  beneath  his  crucible  was  low ; 
Yet  still  it  burned  :  and,  ever  as  his  thoughts 
Grew  insupportable,  he  raised  himself 
Upon  his  wasted  arm,  and  stirred  the  coals 
With  difficult  energy;  and  when  the  rod 
Fell  from  his  nerveless  fingers,  and  his  eye 
Felt  faint  within  its  socket,  he  shrank  back 
Upon  his  pallet,  and  with  unclosed  lips 
Muttered  a  curse  on  death  !     The  silent  room 
From  its  dim  corners  mockingly  gave  back 
His  rattling  breath  ;   the  humming  in  the  fire 
Had  the  distinctness  of  a  knell ;  and,  when 
Duly  the  antique  horologe  beat  one, 
He  drew  a  phial  from  beneath  his  head, 
And  drank.     And  instantly  his  lips  compres       ; 
And,  with  a  shudder  in  his  skeleton  frame, 
He  rose  with  supernatural  strength,  and  sat 
Upright,  and  communed  with  himself:  — 

"  I  did  not  think  to  die 
Till  I  had  finished  what  I  had  to  do; 
I  thought  to  pierce  the  eternal  secret  through 

With  this  my  mortal  eye; 
I  felt —  O  God  !  'it  seemeth  even  now 
This  can  not  be  the  death-dew  on  mv  brow ! 


NATHANIEL  PARKER  WILLIS.  87 

An'd  yet  it  is :  I  feel, 
Of  this  dull  sickness  at  my  heart,  afraid ! 
And  in  my  eyes  the  death-sparks  flash  and  fade; 

And  something  seems  to  steal 
Over  my  bosom  like  a  frozen  hand, 
Binding  its  pulses  with  an  icy  band. 

And  this  is  death  !     But  why 
Feel  I  this  wild  recoil  ?     It  can  not  be 
The  immortal  spirit  shuddereth  to  be  free ! 

Would  it  not  leap  to  fly. 
Like  a  chained  eaglet  at  its  parent's  call  ? 
I  fear,  I  fear,  that  this  poor  life  is  all  1 

Yet  thus  to  pass  away  ; 
To  live  but  for  a  hope  that  mocks  at  last ; 
To  agonize,  to  strive,  to  watch,  to  fast, 

To  waste  the  light  of  day, 
Night's  better  beauty,  feeling,  fancy,  thought, 
All  that  we  have  and  are,  for  this,  for  naught ! 

Grant  me  another  year, 
God  of  my  spirit !  —  but  a  day,  —  to  wiu 
Something  to  satisfy  this  thirst  within ! 

I  would  know  something  here  ! 
Break  for  me  but  one  seal  that  is  unbroken ! 
Speak  for  me  but  one  word  that  is  unspoken  1 

Vain,  vain  !     My  brain  is  turning 
With  a  swift  dizziness,  and  my  heart  grows  sick, 
And  these  hot  temple-throbs  come  fast  and  thick, 

And  I  am  freezing,  —  burning, — 
Dying  !     O  God  !  if  I  might  only  live  !  — 
My  phial  —  ha  !  it  thrills  me !     1  revive  ! 


Ay,  were  not  man  to  die, 
He  were  too  mighty  for  this  narrow  sphere  ! 
Had  he  but  time  to  brood  on  knowledge  here, 

Could  he  but  train  his  eye, 
Might  he  but  wait  the  mystic  word  and  hour, 
Only  his  Maker  would  transcend  his  power  ! 

Earth  has  no  mineral  strange, 
The  illimitable  air  no  hidden  wings, 
Water  no  quality  in  covert  springs, 

And  fire  no  power  to  change. 
Seasons  no  mystery,  and  stars  no  spell, 
Which  the  unwasting  soul  might  not  compel. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Oh  but  for  time  to  track 
The  upper  stars  into  the  pathless  sky; 
To  see  the  invisible  spirits  eyp  to  eye; 

To  hurl  the  li^htninj  bnclc; 
To  tread  unhurt  the  Sea's  dim-lighted  halls; 
To  chase  Day's  chariot  to  the  liorizon-walls ! 

And  more,  much  more !  —  for  now 
The  lite-sealed  i'ountains  of  iny  nature  move,  — 
To  nurse  and  purify  this  human  love; 

To  clear  the  godlike  brow 
Of  weakness  and  mistrust,  and  bow  it  down, 
Worthy  and  beautiful,  to  the  much-loved  one  ! 

This  were  indeed  to  feel 
The  soul-thirst  slacken  at  the  living  stream  ; 
To  live  —  O  God  !  that  life  is  but  a  dream  1 

And  death —     Aha!  I  reel, — 

Dim,  —  dim,  —  I  faint !  —  darkness  comes  o'er  my  eye  I 
Cover  me  !  save  me  !     God  of  heaven  !  I  die  !  " 


'Twas  morning,  and  the  old  man  lay  alone. 
No  friend  had  closed  his  eyelids ;  and  his  lips, 
Open  and  ashy  pale,  the  expression  wore 
Of  his  death-struggle.     His  long  silvery  hair 
Lay  on  his  hollow  temples  thin  and  wild ; 
His  irame  was  wasted,  and  his  features  wan 
And  haggard  as  with  want ;  and  in  his  palm 
His  nails  were  driven  deep,  as  if  the  throe 
Of  the  last  agony  had  wrung  him  sore. 

The  storm  was  raging  still ;  the  shutters  swung 
Screaming  as  harshly  in  the  fitful  wind ; 
And  all  without  went  on,  as  aye  it  will, 
Sunshine  or  tempest,  reckless  that  a  heart 
Is  breaking,  or  has  broken,  in  its  change. 

The  fire  beneath  the  crucible  was  out ; 
The  vessels  of  his  mystic  art  lay  round, 
Useless  and  cold  as  the  ambitious  hand 
That  fashioned  them ;  and  the  small  rod, 
Familiar  to  his  touch  for  threescore  years, 
Lay  on  the  alembic's  rim,  as  if  it  still 
Mrdit  vex  the  elements  at  its  master's  will. 


And  thus  had  passed  from  ifs  unequal  frame 
A  soul  of  fire,  —  a  sun-bent  eagle  stricken 
From  his  high  soaring  down,  —  an  instrument 


JAMES  EUSSELL  LOWELL.  89 

Broken  with  its  own  compass.     Oh,  how  poor 
Seems  the  rich  gift  of  genius  when  it  lies, 
Like  the  adventurous  bird  that  hath  outflown 
His  strength  upon  the  sea,  ambition-wrecked  !  — 
A  thing  the  thrush  might  pity  as  she  sits 
Brooding  in  quiet  on  her  lowly  nest ! 


JAMES   RUSSELL   LOWELL. 

BORN  IN  1819,  CAMBRIDGE,  MASS. 

Mr.  Lowell  resides  in  Cambridge.  He  has  been  Professor  of  Modern  Languages 
and  Belles-Lettres  in  Harvard  University  since  the  resignation  of  Prof.  Longfellow. 
Of  him  the  editor  of  the  English  edition  of  his  •'  Biglow  Papers  "  says,  "  I  can  not 
help  thinking,  that  (leaving  out  of  sight  altogether  his  satirical  works),  fifty  years 
hence,  he  will  be  recognized  as  the  greatest  American  poet  of  our  day.  "Greece 
had  her  Aristophanes ;  Rome,  her  Juvenal ;  Spain,  her  Cervantes ;  France,  her  Rabe- 
lais, her  Moliere,  her  Voltaire;  Germany,  her  Jean  Paul,  her  Heine;  England,  her 
Swift,  her  Thackerav;  and  America  has  her  Lowell."  We  have  decided  to  select 
from* "  The  Biglow  Papers,"  not  simply  because  they  were  written  by  a  political 
satirist  of  the  first  rank,  but  because  they  have  reference  to  an  important  period  of 
the  nation's  history;  and,  besides  their  wholesome  humor,  the  study  of  the  Yankee 
dialect  will  not  be  unprofitable  to  the  pupil,  as  he  will  there  find  faults  of  articula- 
tion iuto  which  he  may  unconsciously  have  fallen. 

PRINCIPAL  PRODUCTIONS. 

"  The  Biglow  Papers ; "  "  Sir  Launfal ; "  "  Under  the  Willows,"  and  other  Poems ; 
"The  Cathedral;"  and  "Among  my  Books,"  prose-work. 

NOTE. —  "  Sam  Slick,"  by  Thomas  C.  Haliburton,  "Major  Jack  Downing's  Let- 
ters," by  Seba  Smith,  "  Letters  of  Petroleum  V.  Nasby,"  by  John  Locke,  "  Pho3- 
nixiana,'"  by  John  Phoenix,  "  Letters  of  Doesticks,"  by  Mortimer  Thompson,  and 
"  Orpheus  C.  Kerr,"  by  R.  H.  Newell,  are  other  productions,  humorous  and  satirical, 
of  American  society  and  politics. 


NOTICES   OP   AN   INDEPENDENT   PRESS. 

From  the  Oldfogrumville  Mentor. 

•  "  We  have  not  had  time  to  do  more  than  glance  through  this  handsomely-printed 
volume ;  but  the  name  of  its  respectable  editor,  the  Rev.  Mr.  Wilbur  of  Jaalam,  will 
afford  a  sufficient  guaranty  for  the  worth  of  its  contents.  .  .  .  The  paper  is  white, 
the  type  clear,  and  the  volume  of  a  convenient  and  attractive  size.  ...  In  reading 
this  elegantly-executed  work,  it  has  seemed  to  us  that  a  passage  or  two  might  have 
been  retrenched  with  advantage,  and  that  the  general  style  of  diction  was  suscep- 
tible of  a  higher  polish.  .  .  .  On  the  whole,  we  may  safely  leave  the  ungrateful  task 
of  criticism  to  the  reader.  We  will  barely  suggest,  that  in  volumes  intended,  as 
this  is,  for  the  illustration  of  a  provincial  dialect,  and  turns  of  expression,  a  dash  of 
humor  or  satire  might  be  thrown  in  with  advantage.  .  .  .  The  work  is  admirably 
got  up.  ...  This  work  will  form  an  appropriate  ornament  to  the  center-table.  It 
is  beautifully  printed  on  paper  of  an  excellent  quality." 


90  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

From  the  Bungtown  Copper  and  Comprehensive  Tocsin  (a  Try  weakly  Family  Journal). 

"  Altogether  an  admirable  work.  .  .  .  Full  of, humor  boisterous,  but  delicate;  of 
wit  withering  and  scorching,  yet  combined  with  a  pathos  cool  as  morning  dew; 
of  satire  ponderous  as  the  mace  of  Richard,  yet  keen  as  the  cimeter  of  Saladin. 
...  A  work  full  of  '  mountain-mirth,'  mischievous  as  Puck,  and  lightsome  as 
Ariel.  .  .  .  We  know  not  whether  to  admire  most  the  genial,  fresh,  and  discursive 
concinnity  of  the  author,  or  his  playful  fancy,  weird  imagination,  and  compass  of 
style,  at  once  both  objective  and  subjective.  .  .  .  We  might  indulge  in  some  criti- 
cisms ;  but,  were  the  author  other  than  he  is,  he  would  be  a  different  being.  As  it  is, 
he  has  a  wonderful  pose,  which  flits  from  flower  to  flower,  and  bears  the  reader 
irresistibly  along  on  its  eagle  pinions  (like  Ganymede)  to  the  '  highest  heaven  of 
invention.'  .  .  .  We  love  a  book  so  purely  objective.  .  .  .  Many  of  his  pictures  of 
natural  scenery  have  aa  extraordinary  subjective  clearness  and  fidelity.  ...  In 
fine,  we  consider  this  as  one  of  the  most  extraordinary  volumes  of  this  or  any  age. 
We  know  of  no  English  author  who  could  have  written  it.  It  is  a  work  to  which 
the  proud  genius  of  our  country,  standing  with  one  foot  on  the  Aroostook  and 
the  other  on  the  Rio  Grande,  and  holding  up  the  star-spangled  banner  amid  '  the 
wreck  of  matter  and  the  crush  of  worlds,'  may  point  with  bewildering  scorn  of 
the  punier  efforts  of  enslaved  Europe.  .  .  .  We  hope  soon  to  encounter  our  author 
among  those  higher  walks  of  literature  in  which  he  is  evidently  capable  of  achiev- 
ing enduring  fame.  Already  we  should  be  inclined  to  assign  him  a  high  position 
in  the  bright  galaxy  of  our  American  bards." 

From  the  Onion  Grove  Phoenix. 

"  A  talented  young  townsman  of  ours,  recently  returned  from  a  Continental  tour, 
and  who  is  already  favorably  known  to  our  readers  by  his  sprightly  letters  from 
abroad  which  have  graced  our  columns,  called  at  our  office  yesterday.  We  learn 
from  him,  that  having  enjoyed  the  distinguished  privilege,  while  in  Germany,  of  an 
introduction  to  the  celebrated  Von  Humbug,  he  took  the  opportunity  to  present  that 
eminent  man  with  a  copy  of  '  The  Biglow  Papers.'  The  next  morning  he  received 
the  following  note,  which  he  has  kindly  furnished  us  for  publication.  We  prefer  to 
print  verbatim,  knowing  that  our  readers  will  readily  forgive  the  few  errors  into 
which  the  illustrious  writer  has  fallen  through  ignorance  of  our  language. 

" '  HIGH- WORTHY  MISTER,  —  I  shall  also  now  especially  happy  starve,  because  I 
have  more  or  less  a  work  of  one  those  aboriginal  Red-Men  seen  in  which  have  I  so 
deaf  an  interest  ever  taken  fullworthy  on  the  self  shelf  with  our  Gottsched  to  be 
*pset. 

"  '  Pardon  my  in  the  English-speech  unpractice !  u  4  VQN  HuMBUQ , 

"  He  also  sent  with  the  above  note  a  copy  of  his  famous  work  on  '  Cosmetic?,'  to 
be  presented  to  Mr.  Biglow;  but  this  was  taken  from  our  friend  by  the  English  cus- 
tom-house officers,  probably  through  a  petty  national  spite.  No  doubt  it  has  by  this 
time  found  its  way  into  the  British  Museum.  We  trust  this  outrage  will  be  exposed 
in  all  our  American  papers.  We  shall  do  our  best  to  bring  it  to  the  notice  of  the 
State  department  Our  numerous  readers  will  share  in  the  pleasure  we  experience 
at  seeing  our  young  and  vigorous  national  literature  thus  encouragingly  patted  on 
the  head  by  this  venerable  and  world-renowned  German.  We  love  to  see  these 
reciprocations  of  good  feeling  between  the  different  branches  of  the  gre*>t  Anglo- 
Saxon  race." 


JAMES   KUSSELL  LOWELL.  91 

From  the  Jaalam  Independent  Blunderbuss. 

..."  But,  while  we  lament  to  see  our  young  townsman  thus  mingling  in  the 
heated  contests  of  party  politics,  we  think  we  detect  in  him  the  presence  of  talents, 
which,  if  properly  directed,  might  give  an  innocent  pleasure  to  many.  As  a  proof 
that  he  is  competent  to  the  production  of  other  kinds  of  poetry,  we  copy  for  our 
readers  a  short  fragment  of  a  pastoral  by  him,  the  manuscript  of  which  was  loaned 
us  by  a  friend.  The  title  of  it  is  '  The  CourtinV  " 

ZEKLE  crep'  up,  quite  unbeknown, 

An'  peeked  in  thru  the  winder ; 
An'  there  sot  Huldy  all  alone, 

'ith  no  one  nigh  to  hender. 

Agin'  the  chimbly  crooknecks  hung ; 

An'  in  amongst  'em  rusted 
The  ole  queen's  arm  thet  Gran'ther  Young 

Fetched  back  from  Concord  busted. 

The  wannut-logs  shot  sparkles  out 

Towards  the  pootiest,  bless  her  ! 
An'  leetle  fires  danced  all  about 

The  chiny  on  the  dresser. 

The  very  room,  coz  she  wuz  in, 

Looked  warm  frum  floor  to  ceilin'; 
An'  she  looked  full  ez  rosy  agin 

Ez  th'  apples  she  wuz  peelin'. 

She  heerd  a  foot,  an'  knowed  it  tu, 

Araspin'  on  the  scraper  : 
All  ways  to  once  her  feelin's  flew 

Like  sparks  in  burnt-up  paper. 

He  kin'  o'  1'itered  on  the  mat, 

Some  doubtfle  o'  the  seekle : 
His  heart  kep'  goin'  pitypat, 

But  hern  went  pity  Zekle. 


It  remains  to  speak  of  the  Yankee  dialect.  And  first  it  may  be  premised,  in 
a  general  way,  that  any  one  much  read  in  the  writings  of  the  early  colonists  need 
not  be  told  that  the  far  greater  share  of  the  words  and  phrases  now  esteemed  pe- 
culiar to  New  England,  and  local  there,  were  brought  from  the  mother-country. 
A  person  familiar  with  the  dialect  of  certain  portions  of  Massachusetts  will  not  fail 
to  recognize  in  ordinary  discourse  many  words  now  noted  in  English  vocabularies 
as  archaic,  the  greater  part  of  which  were  in  common  use  about  the  time  of  the 
King  James  translation  of  the  Bible.  Shakspeare  stands  less  in  need  of  a  glossary 
to  most  New-Englanders  than  to  many  a  native  of  the  Old  Country.  The  peculiari- 
ties of  our  speech,  however,  are  rapidly  wearing  out.  As  there  is  no  country  where 
reading  is  so  universal,  and  newspapers  are  so  multitudinous,  so  no  phrase  remains 
long  local,  but  is  transplanted  in  the  mail-bags  to  every  remotest  corner  of  the  land. 


92  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Consequently  our  dialect  approaches  nearer  to  uniformity  than  that  of  any  other 
nation. 

The  English  have  complained  of  us  for  coining  new  words.  Many  of  those  so 
stigmatized  were  old  ones  by  them  forgotten;  and  all  make  now  an  unquestioned 
part  of  the  currency  wherever  English  is  spoken.  Undoubtedly,  we  have  a  right 
to  make  new  words  as  they  are  needed  by  the  fresh  aspects  under  which  life  pre- 
sents itself  here  in  the  New  World  ;  and  indeed,  wherever  a  language  is  alive,  it 
grows.  It  might  be  questioned  whether  we  could  not  establish  a  stronger  title  to 
the  ownership  of  the  English  tongue  than  the  mother-islanders  themselves.  Here, 
past  all  question,  is  to  be  its  great  home  and  center.  And  not  onlv  is  it  already 
spoken  here  by  greater  numbers,  but  with  a  far  higher  popular  average  of  correct- 
ness, than  in  Britain.  The  great  writers  of  it,  too,  we  might  claim  as  ours,  were 
ownership  to  be  settled  by  the  number  of  readers  and  lovers. 

As  regards  the  provincialisms  to  be  met  with  in  this  volume,  I  may  say  that  the 
reader  will  not  find  one  which  is  not  (as  I  believe)  either  native,  or  imported  with 
the  early  settlers;  nor  one  which  I  have  not  with  my  own  ears  heard  in  familiar 
use.  In  the  metrical  portion  of  the  book,  I  have  endeavored  to  adapt  the  spelling 
as  nearly  as  possible  to  the  ordinary  mode  of  pronunciation.  Let  the  reader  who 
deems  me  over-particular  remember  this  caution  of  Martial :  — 

"  Quern  recitas,  metis  est,  O  Fidentine,  libeUus; 
Sed  male  cum  recitas,  incipit  esse  tuus." 

A  few  further  explanatory  remarks  will  not  be  impertinent. 

I  shall  barely  lay  down  a  few  general  rules  for  the  reader's  guidance. 

1.  The  genuine  Yankee  never  gives  the  rough  sound  to  the  r  when  he  can  help 
it,  and  often  displays  considerable  ingenuity  in  avoiding  it  even  before  a  vowel. 

2.  He  seldom  sounds  the  final  g ;  a  piece  of  self-denial,  if  we  consider  his  par- 
tiality for  nasals.     The  same  of  the  final  d,  as  hari1  and  stari1  for  hand  and  stand. 

3.  The  h  in  such  words  as  while,  when,  where,  he  omits  altogether. 

4.  In  regard  to  «,  he  shows  some  inconsistency;  sometimes  giving  a  close  and 
obscure  sound,  as  hev  for  have,  hendy  for  handy,  ez  for  as,  thet  for  that;  and  again 
giving  it  the  broad  sound  it  has  hi  father,  as  hdnsome  for  handsome. 

5.  To  the  sound  ouhe  prefixes  an  e  (hard  to  exemplify  otherwise  than  orally). 
The  following  passage  in  Shakspeare  he  would  recite  thus :  — 

"  Xcow  is  the  winta  uv  eour  discontent 
Med  glorious  summa  by  this  sun  o'  Yock ; 
An*  all  the  cleouds  thet  leowered  upun  eour  heouse 
In  the  deep  buzzum  o'  the  oshin  buried. 
Neow  air  eour  breows  beound 'ith  victorious  wreaths; 
Eour  breused  arms  hung  up  fer  monimunce  ; 
Eour  starn  alarums  changed  to  merry  meetin's, 
Eour  dreffle  marches  to  delightful  measures. 
Grim-visaged  War  heth  smeuthetl  his  wrinkled  front; 
An'  neow,  iustid  o'  mountin'  barebid  steeds 
To  fright  the  souls  o'  ferfle  edverseries, 
He  capers  nimly  in  a  lady's  chamber 
To  the  lascivious  pleasin'  uv  a  loot." 

6.  Au,  in  such  words  as  daughter  and  slaughter,  he  pronounces  ah. 

7.  To  the  dish  thus  seasoned  add  a  drawl  ad  libitum. 

[Mr.  Wilbur's  notes  here  become  entirely  fragmentary.  —  C.  N.] 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL.  93 

No.    VIII. 

A   SECOND  LETTER  FROM  B.    SAWIN,   ESQ. 

[In  the  following  epistle,  we  behold  Mr.  Sawin  returning,  a  miles  emeritus,  to  the 
bosom  of  his  family.  Quantum  mutatus!  The  good  Father  of  us  all  had  doubtless 
intrusted  to  the  keeping  of  this  child  of  his  certain  faculties  of  a  constructive  kind. 
He  had  put  in  him  a  share  of  that  vital  force,  the  nicest  economy  of  every  minute 
atom  of  which  is  necessary  to  the  perfect  development  of  humanity.  He  had  given 
him  a  brain  and  heart,  and  so  had  equipped  his  soul  with  the  two  strong  wings  of 
knowledge  and  love,  whereby  it  can  mount  to  hang  its  nest  under  the  eaves  of 
heaven.  And  this  child,  so  dowered,  he  had  intrusted  to  the  keeping  of  his  vicar, 
the  State.  How  stands  the  account  of  that  stewardship?  The  State  or  Society 
(call  her  by  what  name  you  will)  had  taken  no  manner  of  thought  of  him  till  she 
saw  him  swept  out  into  the  street,  the  pitiful  leavings  of  last  night's  debauch,  with 
cigar-ends,  lemon-parings,  tobacco-quids,  slops,  vile  stenches,  and  the  whole  loath- 
some next-morning  of  the  bar-room,  —  an  own  child  of  the  Almighty  God!  I  re- 
member him  as  he  was  brought  to  be  christened,  a  ruddy,  rugged  babe  :  and  now 
there  he  wallows,  reeking,  seething.  —  the  dead  corpse,  not  of  a  man,  but  of  a  soul; 
a  putrefying  lump,  horrible  for  the  life  that  is  in  it.  Conies  the  wind  of  heaven, 
that  Good  Samaritan,  and  parts  the  hair  upon  his  forehead,  nor  is  too  nice  to  kiss 
those  parched,  cracked  lips ;  the  morning  opens  upon  him  her  eyes  full  of  pitying 
sunshine;  the  sky  yearns  down  to  him:  and  there  he  lies  fermenting.  0  Sleep !— let 
me  not  profane  thy  holy  name  by  calling  that  stertorous  unconsciousness  a  slumber! 
By  and  by  comes  along  the  State,  God's  vicar.  Does  she  say,  "  My  poor,  forlorn 
foster-child !  —  behold  here  a  force  which  I  will  make  dig  and  plant  and  build  for 
me !  "  Not  so ;  but,  "  Here  is  a  recruit  ready-made  to  my  hand,  a  piece  of  destroying 
energy  lying  unprofitably  idle."  So  she  claps  an  ugly  gray  suit  on  him,  puts  a 
musket  in  his  grasp,  and  sends  him  off,  with  gubernatorial  and  other  godspeeds,  to 
do  duty  as  a  destroyer. 

I  made  one  of  the  crowd  at  the  last  Mechanics'  Fair,  and  with  the  rest  stood 
gazing  in  wonder  at  a  perfect  machine,  with  its  soul  of  fire,  its  boiler-heart  that 
sent  the  hot  blood  pulsing  along  the  iron  arteries,  and  its  thews  of  steel.  And 
while  I  was  admiring  the  adaptation  of  means  to  end,  the  harmonious  involutions 
of  contrivance,  and  the  never-bewildered  complexity,  I  saw  a  grimed  and  greasy 
fellow,  the  imperious  engine's  lackey  and  drudge,  whose  sole  office  was  to  let  fall  at 
intervals  a  drop  or  two  of  oil  upon  a  certain  joint.  Then  my  soul  said  within  me, 
"  See  there  a  piece  of  mechanism  to  which  that  other  you  marvel  at  is  but  as  the 
rude  first  effort  of  a  child;  a  force  which  not  merely  suffices  to  set  a  few  wheels 
in  motion,  but  which  can  send  an  impulse  all  through  the  infinite  future;  a  con- 
trivance, not  for  turning  out  pins  or  stitching  button-holes,  but  for  making  Hamlets 
and  Lears.  And  yet  this  thing  of  iron  shall  be  housed,  waited  on,  guarded  from 
rust  and  dust,  and  it  shall  be  a  crime  but  so  much  as  to  scratch  it  with  a  pin;  while 
the  other,  with  its  fire  of  God  in  it,  shall  be  buffeted  hither  and  thither,  and  finally 
sent  carefully  a  thousand  miles  to  be  the  target  for  a  Mexican  .cannon-ball.  Un- 
thrifty Mother  State !  "  My  heart  burned  within  me  for  pity  and  indignation,  and  I 
renewed  this  covenant  with  my  own  soul:  In  aliis  mansuetus  ero,  at,  in  blasphemm 
contra  C/iristum,  nan  ita.  —  H.  W.] 


94  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

I  S'POSE  you  wonder  ware  I  be ;  I  can't  tell,  fer  the  soul  o'  me, 

Exacly  ware  I  be  myself,  —  meanin'  by  thet  the  holl  o'  me. 

\Ven  I  left  hum,  I  hed  two  legs,  an'  they  worn't  bad  ones  neither, 

(The  scaliest  trick  they  ever  played  wuz  oringin'  on  me  hither,) 

Now  one  on  'em's  I  dunno  ware  ;  —  they  thought  I  wuz  adyin', 

An'  sawed  it  off  because  they  said  'twuz  kin'  o'  mortifyin' : 

I'm  willin'  to  believe  it  wuz,  an'  yit  I  don't  see,  nuther, 

Wy  one  should  take  to  feelin'  cheap  a  minnit  sooner  'n  t'other, 

Sence  both  wuz  equilly  to  blame ;  but  things  is  ez  they  be. 

It  took  on  so  they  took  it  off,  an'  thet's  enough  fer  me ; 

There's  one  good  thing,  though,  to  be  said  about  my  wooden  new  one,  — 

The  liquor  can't  git  into  it  ez't  used  to  in  the  true  one ; 

So  it  saves  drink ;  an'  then,  besides,  a  feller  couldn't  beg 

A  gretter  blessin'  then  to  hev  one  oilers  sober  peg ; 

It's  true  a  chap's  in  want  o'  two  fer  follerin'  a  drum, 

But  all  the  march  I'm  up  to  now  is  jest  to  Kingdom  Come. 

I've  lost  one  eye,  but  thet's  a  loss  it's  easy  to  supply 

Out  o'  the  glory  thet  I've  gut,  fer  thet  is  all  my  eye ; 

An'  one  is  big  enough,  I  guess,  by  diligently  usin'  it, 

To  see  all  I  shall  ever  git  by  way  o'  pay  fer  losin'  it. 

Off 'cers,  I  notice,  who  git  paid  fer  all  our  thumps  an'  kickin's, 

Du  wal  by  keepin'  single  eyes  arter  the  fattest  pickin's ; 

So,  ez  the  eye's  put  fairly  out,  I'll  larn  to  go  without  it, 

An'  not  allow  myself  to  be  no  gret  put  out  about  it. 

Now,  le'  me  see,  thet  isn't  all ;  I  used,  'fore  leavin'  Jaalara, 

To  count  things  on  my  finger-eends,  but  sutthin'  seems  to  ail  'em : 

Ware's  my  left  hand  ?  oh  !  darn  it,  yes,  I  recollect  wut's  come  on't; 

I  hain't  no  left  arm  but  my  right,  an'  thet's  gut  jest  a  thumb  on't; 

It  ain't  so  hendy  ez  it  wuz  to  cal'late  a  sum  on't. 

I've  hed  some  ribs  broke,  —  six  (I  b'lieve),  —  I  hain't  kep  no  account  on 

'em: 

Wen  pensions  git  to  be  the  talk,  I'll  settle  the  amount  on  'em. 
An'  now  I'm  speakin'  about  ribs,  it  kin'  o'  brings  to  mind 
One  thet  I  couldn't  never  break,  —  the  one  I  lei*  behind ; 
Ef  you  should  see  her,  jest  clear  out  the  spout  o'  your  invention, 
An'  pour  the  longest  sweetnin'  in  about  an  annooal  pension, 
An'  kin'  o'  hint  (in  case,  you  know,  the  critter  should  refuse  to  be 
Consoled)  I  ain't  so  'xpensive  now  to  keep  ez  wut  I  used  to  be ; 
There's  one  arm  less,  ditto  one  eye,  an'  then  the  leg  thet's  wooden 
Can  be  took  off  an'  sot  away  wenever  ther'  's  a  puddin'. 

I  s'pose  you  think  I'm  comin'  back  ez  opperlunt  ez  thunder, 

With  shiploads  o'  gold  images  an'  varus  sorts  o'  plunder : 

Wal,  'tore  I  vullinteered,  I  thought  this  country  wuz  a  sort  o' 

Canaan,  a  reg'lar  Promised  Land,  flowin'  with'rum  an'  water, 

Ware  propaty  growed  up  like  time,  without  no  cultivation, 

An'  gold  wuz  dug  ez  taters  be  among  our  Yankee  nation ; 

Ware  nateral  advantages  were  pufficly  amazin' ; 

Ware  every  rock  there  wuz  about  with  precious  stuns  wuz  blazin* ; 

Ware  mill-sites  filled  the  country  up  ez  thick  ez  you  could  cram  'em. 

An'  desput  rivers  run  about  abeggin'  folks  to  dam  'em ; 


JAMES   RUSSELL  LOWELL.  95 

Then  there  were  meetinhouses,  tu,  chockful  o'  gold  an'  silver, 

Thet  you  could  take,  an'  no  one  couldn't  hand  ye  in  no  bill  fer, —    • 

Thet's  wut  I  thought  afore  I  went,  thet's  wut  them  fellers  told  us 

Thet  stayed  to  hum  an'  speechified  an'  to  the  buzzards  sold  us; 

I  thought  thet  gold  mines  could  be  gut  cheaper  than  china-asters, 

An'  see  myself  acomin'  back  like  sixty  Jacob  Astors ; 

But  sech  idees  soon  melted  down  an'  didn't  leave  a  grease-spot ; 

I  vow  my  holl  sheer  o'  the  spiles  wouldn't  come  nigh  a  V  spot. 

Although  most  anywares  we've  ben,  you  needn't  break  no  locks, 

Nor  run  no  kin'  o  risks  to  fill  your  pocket  full  o'  rocks. 

I  guess  I  mentioned  in  my  last  some  o'  the  nateral  feeturs 

O'  this  all-fiered  buggy  hole  in  th'  way  o'  awfle  creeturs ; 

But  I  fergut  to  name  (new  things  to  speak  on  so  abounded) 

How  one  day  you'll  most  die  o'  thust,  an'  'fore  the  next  git  drownded. 

The  clymit  seems  to  me  jest  like  a  teapot  made  o'  pewter 

Our  Prudence  hed,  thet  wouldn't  pour  (all  she  could  du)  to  suit  her  : 

Fust  place  the  leaves  'ould  choke  the  spout,  so 's  not  a  drop  'ould  dreen  out, 

Then  Prude  'ould  tip  an'  tip  an'  tip,  till  the  holl  kit  bust  clean  out ; 

The  kiver-hinge-pin  bein'  lost,  tea-leaves  an'  tea,  an'  kiver 

'ould  all  come  down  kerswosh  !  ez  though  the  dam  broke  in  a  river. 

Jest  so  'tis  here ;  holl  months  there  aint  a  day  o'  rainy  weather, 

An'  jest  ez  th'  officers  'ould  be  alayin'  heads  together 

Ez  t'  how  they'd  mix  their  drink  at  sech  a  milingtary  deepot,  — 

'T  'ould  pour  ez  though  the  lid  wuz  off  the  everlastin'  teapot. 

The  cons'quence  is,  thet  I  shall  take,  wen  I'm  allowed  to  leave  here, 

One  piece  o'  propaty  along,  —  an'  thet's  the  shakin'  fever  ; 

It's  reggilar  employment,  though,  an'  thet  aint  thought  to  harm  one, 

Nor  't  aint  so  tiresome  ez  it  wuz  with  t'other  leg  an'  arm  on ; 

An'  it's  a  consolation  tu,  although  it  doosn't  pay, 

To  hev  it  said  you're  some  gret  shakes  in  any  kin'  o'  way. 

'T  worn't  very  long,  I  tell  ye  wut,  I  thought  o'  fortin-makin,  — 

One  day  a  reg'lar  shiver-de-freeze,  an'  next  ez  good  ez  bakin',  — 

One  day  abrilin'  in  the  sand,  then  smoth'rin'  in  the  mashes,  — 

Git  up  all  sound,  be  put  to  bed  a  mess  o'  hacks  an'  smashes. 

But  then,  thinks  I,  at  any  rate  there's  glory  to  be  hed, — 

Thet's  an  investment,  arter  all,  thet  mayn't  turn  out  so  bad ; 

But  somehow,  wen  we'd  fit  an'  licked,  I  oilers  found  the  thanks 

Gut  kin'  o'  lodged  afore  they  come  ez  low  down  ez  the  ranks. 

The  Gin'rals  gut  the  biggest  sheer,  the  Cunnles  next,  an'  so  on,  — 

We  never  gut  a  blasted  mite  o'  glory  ez  I  know  on  ; 

An',  spose  we  hed,  I  wonder  how  you're  goin'  to  contrive  its 

Division  so's  to  give  a  piece  to  twenty  thousand  privits. 

Ef  you  should  multiply  by  ten  the  portion  o'  the  brav'st  one, 

You  wouldn't  git  mor'n  half  enough  to  speak  of  on  a  grave-stun ; 

We  git  the  licks,  — we're  jest  the  grist  thet's  put  into  War's  hoppers; 

Leftenants  is  the  lowest  grade  thet  helps  pick  up  the  coppers. 

It  may  suit  folks  thet  go  agin  a  body  with  a  soul  in't, 

An'  aint  contented  with  a  hide  without  a  bagnet  hole  in't ; 

But  glory  is  a  kin'  o'  thing  /  shan't  pursue  no  furder, 

Coz  thet's  the  ofFcers  parquisite,  — yourn's  on'y  jest  the  murder. 

Wai,  arter  I  gin  glory  up,  thinks  I  at  least  there's  one 

Thing  in  the  bills  we  .aint  hed  yit,  an'  thet's  the  GLORIOUS  FUN  ; 


96  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Ef  once  we  git  to  Mexico,  we  fairly  may  persume  we 

Alt  day  an'  nijht  shall  revel  in  the  halls  o'  Montezumy. 

I'll  tell  ye  wut  my  revels  wuz,  an'  see  how  you  would  like  'em : 

We  never  gut  inside  the  hall;  the  nighest'ever  /  come 

Wuz  stan'in  sentry  in  the  sun  (an',  fact,  it  seemed  a  cent'ry) 

A  ketchin'  smells  o'  biled  an'  roast  thet  come  out  thru  the  entry, 

An'  hearin',  ez  I  sweltered  thru  my  passes  an'  repa- 

A  rat-tat-too  o'  knives  an'  forks,  a  clinkty-clink  o'  glasses. 

I  can't  tell  off  the  bill  o'  fare  the  Gin'rals  hed  inside ; 

All  I  know  is,  thet  out  o'  doors  a  pair  o'  soles  wuz  fried, 

An',  not  a  hunderd  miles  away  frum  ware  this  child  wuz  posted, 

A  Massachusetts  citizen  wuz  baked  an'  biled  an'  roasted : 

The  on'y  thing  like  revellin'  thet  ever  come  to  me 

Wuz  bein'  routed  out  o'  sleep  by  thet  darned  revelee. 

They  say  the  quarrel's  settled  now ;  fer  my  part  I've  some  doubt  on't ; 

'T  '11  take  more  fish-skin  than  folks  think  to  take  the  rile  clean  out  on't ; 

At  any  rate,  I'm  so  used  up  I  can't  do  no  more  fightin', 

The  on'y  chance  thet's  left  to  me  is  politics  or  writin'. 

Now,  ez  the  people's  gut  to  hev  a  milingtary  man, 

An'  I  aint  nothin'  else  jest  now,  I've  hit  upon  a  plan ; 

The  can'idatin'  line,  you  know,  'ould  suit  me  to  a  T, 

An',  ef  I  lose,  't  wunt  hurt  my  ears  to  lod^e  another  flea: 

So  I'll  set  up  ez  can'idate  fer  any  kin'  o'  office, 

(I  mean  fer  any  thet  includes  good  easy-cheers  an'  soffies ; 

Fer  ez  to  runnin'  fer  a  place  ware  work's  the  time  o'day, 

You  know  thet's  wut  I  never  did,  —  exeept  the  other  way;) 

Ef  it's  the  Presidential  cheer  fer  wich  1*1  better  run, 

Wut  two  leirs  any  wares  about  could  keep  up  with  my  one? 

There  aint  no  kin'  o'  quality  in  can'idates,  it's  said, 

So  useful  ez  a  wooden  leg,  —  except  a  wooden  head  ; 

There's  nothin'  aint  so  poppylar  (wy,  it's  a  parfect  sin 

To  think  wut  Mexico  hez  paid  fer  Santy  Anny's  pin)  -^ 

Then  I  hain't  gut  no  principles,  an',  sence  I  wuz  knee-high, 

I  never  did  hev  any  gret,  ez  you  can  testify ; 

I'm  a  decided  peace-man  tu,  an'  go  agin  the  war,  — 

Fer  now  the  holl  on't  's  gone  an'  past,  wut  is  there  to  go /or? 

Ef,  wile  you're  'lectioneerin'  round,  some  curus  chaps  should  beg 

To  know  my  views  o'  State  affairs,  jest  answer,  "  WOODEN  LEG  1 " 

Ef  they  aint  settisfied  with  thet,  an'  kin'  o'  pry  an'  doubt 

An'  ax  fer  sutthin'  deffynit,  jest  say,  "  ONE  EYE  PUT  OUT  !  " 

Thet  kin'  o'  talk  I  guess  you'll  find'll  answer  to  a  charm, 

An',  wen  you're  druv  tu  niirh  the  wall,  hoi'  up  my  missin'  arm  ; 

Ef  they  should  nose  round  fer  a  pledge,  put  on  a  vartoous  look, 

An'  tell  'em  thet's  percisely  wut  I  never  gin  nor  —  took  ! 

Then  you  can  call  me  "  Timbertoes  ;  "  thet's  wut  the  people  likes,  — 

Sutthin'  combinin'  morril  truth  with  phrases  sech  ez  strikes ; 

Some  say  the  people's  fond  o'  this,  or  thet,  or  wut  you  please  : 

I  tell  ye  wut  the  people  want  is  jest  correct  idees. 

"  Old  "Timbertoes."  you  see,  's  a  creed  it's  safe  to  be  quite  bold  on, 

There's  nothin'  in't  thy  other  side  can  any  ways  git  hold  on ; 

It's  a  good  tangible  idee,  a  sutthin  to  embody 

Thet  valooable  class  o'  men  who  look  thru  brandy-toddy ; 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL.  97 

It  gives  a  Party  Platform  tu,  jest  level  with  the  mind 

Of  all  right- thin  kin',  honest  folks  thet  mean  to  go  it  blind. 

Then  there  air  other  good  hooraws  to  dror  on  ez  you  need  'em  ; 

Sech  ez  the  ONE-£YED  SLARTERER,  the  BLOODY  BIKDOFREDUM  : 

Them's  wut  takes  hold  o*  folks  thet  think,  ez  well  ez  o'  the  masses, 

An'  makes  you  sartin  o'  the  aid  o'  good  men  of  all  classes. 

There's  one  thing  I'm  in  doubt  about ;  in  order  to  be  Presidunt, 

It's  absolutely  ne'ssary  to  be  a  Southern  residunt ; 

The  Constitution  settles  thet,  an'  also  thet  a  feller 

Must  own  a  nigger  o'  some  sort,  jet-black,  or  brown,  or  yeller. 

Now,  I  hain't  no  objections  agin  particklar  climes, 

Nor  agin  ownin  any  thin'  (except  the  truth  sometimes)  ; 

But  ez  I  hain't  no  capital,  up  there  among  ye,  maybe, 

You  might  raise  funds  enough  fer  me  to  buy  a  low-priced  baby  ; 

An'  then,  to  suit  the  No'thern  folks,  who  feel  obleeged  to  say 

They  hate  an'  cuss  the  very  thing  they  vote  fer  every  day, 

Say  you're  assured  I  go  full  butt  fer  Libbaty's  diffusion, 

An'  made  the  purchis  on'y  jest  to  spite  the  Institootion. 

But  golly !  there's  the  currier's  hoss  upon  the  pavement  pawin' ! 

I'll  be  more  'xplicit  in  my  next. 

Yourn, 

BIRDOFREDUM    SAWIN. 

We  have  now  a  tolerably  fair  chance  of  estimating  how  the  balance-sheet  stands 
between  our  returned  volunteer  and  glory.  Supposing  the  entries  to  be  set  down 
on  both  sides  of  the  account  in  fractional  parts  of  one  hundred,  we  shall  arrive  at 
something  like  the  following  result :  — 

Cr.  B.  SAWIN   Esq.,  in  account  with  (BLANK)  GLORY.  Dr. 


By  loss  of  one  leg     . 
„      do.       one  arm    . 
„     do.       four  fingers 
„     do.       one  eye    . 
„   the  breaking  of  six  ribs 


20  To  one  675th  three  cheers  in  Faneuil 

15  Hall 30 

5  ,,              do.                do.                 on 

10  occasion  of  presentation  of  sword 


6  to  Colonel  Wright     .         .         .25 

„   having  served  under  Colonel  Gush-  „    one  suit  of  gray  clothes  (ingo- 

ing one  month .        .        .        .44  .niously  unbecoming)         .        .  15 

„    musical    entertainments    (drum 

and  fife  six  months)          .         .     5 

„    one  dinner  after  return        .         .     1 

„    chance  of  pension        .        .        .1 

„    privilege    of    drawing    longbow 

during  rest  of  natural  life        .  23 

E.  E.  100  100 

It  would  appear  that  Mr.  Sawin  found  the  actual  feast  curiously  the  reverse  of 
the  bill  of  fare  advertised  in  Faneuil  Hall  and  other  places.  His  primary  object 
seems  to  have  been  the  making  of  his  fortune.  Qucerenda  pecunia  primum,  virtus 
post  nummos.  He  hoisted  sail  for  Eldorado,  and  shipwrecked  on  Point  Tribulation. 
Quid  non  mortalia  pectora  cogis,  auri  sacra  fames  ?  The  speculation  has  sometimes 
crossed  my  mind,  in  that  dreary  interval  of  drought  which  intervenes  between  quar- 
terly stipendiary  showers,  that  Providence,  by  the  creation  of  a  money-tree,  might 
have  simplified  wonderfully  the  sometimes  perplexing  problem  of  human  life.  We 
read  of  bread-trees,  the  butter  for  which  lies  ready  churned  in  Irish  bogs.  Milk-trees 
we  are  assured  of  in  South  America;  and  stout  Sir  John  Hawkins  testifies  to  water- 


98  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

trees  in  the  Canaries.  Boot-trees  bear  abundantly  in  Lynn  and  elsewhere;  and  I 
have  seen,  in  the  entries  of  the  wealthy,  hat-tree?  with  a  fair  show  of  fruit.  A  family- 
tree  I  once  cultivated  myself,  and  found  therefrom  but  a  scanty  yield,  and  that  quite 
tasteless  and  innutritions.  Of  trees  bearing  men  we  are  not  without  examples ;  as 
those  in  the  park  of  Louis  the  Eleventh  of  France.  Who  has  forgotten,  moreover, 
that  olive-tree,  growing  in  the  Athenian's  back-garden,  with  its  strange  uxorious 
crop,  for  the  general  propagation  of  which,  as  of  a  new  and  precious  variety,  the 
philosopher  Diogenes,  hitherto  uninterested  in  arboriculture,  was  so  zealous  V  In 
the  syha  of  our  own  Southern  States,  the  females  of  my  family  have  called  my 
attention  to  the  china-tree.  Xot  to  multiply  examples,  I  will  barely  add  to  my  list 
the  birch-tree,  in  the  smaller  branches  of  which  has  been  implanted  so  miraculous  a 
virtue  for  communicating  the  Latin  and  Greek  languages,  and  which  may  well, 
therefore,  be  classed  among  the  trees  producing  necessaries  of  life,  —  venerabile, 
donum  fatcdis  virr/ce.  That  money-trees  existed  in  the  golden  age,  there  want  not 
prevalent  reasons  for  our  believing ;  fordoes  not  the  old  proverb,  when  it  asserts 
that  money  does  not  grow  on  every  bush,  imply,  a  fortiori,  that  there  were  certain 
bushes  which  did  produce  it?  Again:  there  is  another  ancient  saw  to  the  effect 
that  money  is  the  root  of  all  evil.  From  which  two  adages  it  may  be  safe  to  infer 
that  the  aforesaid  species  of  tree  first  degenerated  into  a  shrub,  then  absconded 
underground,  and  finally,  in  our  iron  age,  vanished  altogether.  In  favorable  expo- 
sures, it  may  be  conjectured  that  a  specimen  or  two  survived  to  a  great  age,  as  in  the 
garden  of  the  Hesperides ;  and  indeed  what  else  could  that  tree  in  the  Sixth  ^Eneid 
have  been,  with  a  branch  whereof  the  Trojan  hero  procured  admission  to  a  territory 
for  the  entering  of  which  money  is  a  surer  passport  than  to  a  certain  other  more 
profitable  (too)  foreign  kingdom?  Whether  these  speculations  of  mine  have  any 
force  in  them,  or  whether  they  will  not  rather,  by  most  readers,  be  deemed  imperti- 
nent to  the  matter  in  hand,  is  a  question  which  I  leave  to  the  determination  of  an 
indulgent  posterity.  That  there  were  in  more  primitive  and  happier  times  shops 
where  money  was  sold.  —  and  that,  too,  on  credit  and  at  a  bargain,  —  I  take  to  be 
matter  of  demonstration.  For  what  but  a  dealer  in  this  article  was  that  JEolus  who 
supplied  Ulysses  w'ith  motive  power  for  his  fleet  in  bags?  what  that  Ericus,  King 
of  Sweden,  who  is  said  to  have  kept  the  winds  in  his  cap?  what,  in  more  recent 
times,  those  Lapland  Nornas  who  traded  in  favorable  breezes?  —  all  which  will 
appear  the  more  clearly  when  we  consider,  that,  even  to  this  day,  raising  the  wind 
is  proverbial  for  raising  money,  and  that  brokers  and  banks  were  invented  by  the 
Venetians  at  a  later  period. 

And  now  for  the  improvement  of  this  digression.  I  find  a  parallel  to  Mr.  Sawin's 
fortune  in  an  adventure  of  my  own ;  for,  shortly  after  1  had  first  broached  to  myself 
the  before-stated  natural-historical  and  archaeological  theories,  as  I  was  passing, 
htec  negotia  penitus  mecum  revolvens,  through  one  of  the  obscure  suburbs  of  our  New- 
England  metropolis,  my  eye  was  attracted  by  these  words  upon  a  sign-board: 
CHEAP  CASH-STOKE.  Here  was  at  once  the  confirmation  of  my  speculations  and 
the  substance  of  my  hopes.  Here  lingered  the  fragment  of  a  happier  past,  or 
stretched  out  the  first  tremulous  organic  filament  of  a  more  fortunate  future.  Thus 
glowed  the  distant  Mexico  to  the  eyes  of  Saw  in  as  he  looked  through  the  dirty 
pane  of  the  recruiting-office  window,  or  speculated  from  the  summit  of  that 
rnirage-Pisgah  which  the  imps  of  the  bottle  are  so  cunning  in  raising  up.  Already 
had  my  Alnaschar  fancy  (even  during  that  first  half-believing  glance)  expended  in 
various  useful  directions  the  funds  to  be  obtained  by  pledging  the  manuscript  of  a 
proposed  volume  of  discourses.  Already  did  a  clock  ornament  the  tower  of  the 


JAMES   RUSSELL  LOWELL.  99 

Jaalam  meeting-house,  —  a  gift  appropriately  but  modestly  commemorated  in  the 
parish  and  town  records;  both,  for  now  many  years,  kept  by  myself.  Already  had 
my  son  Seneca  completed  his  course  at  the  university.  Whether,  for  the  moment, 
we  may  not  be  considered  as  actually  lording  it  over  those  Baratarias  with  the 
viceroyalty  of  which  Hope  invests  us,  and  whether  we  are  ever  so  warmly  housed 
as  in  our  Spanish  castles,  would  afford  matter  of  argument.  Enough  that  I  found 
that  sign-board  to  be  no  other  than  a  bait  to  the  trap  of  a  decayed  grocer.  Never- 
theless, I  bought  a  pound  of  dates  (getting  short  weight  by  reason  of  immense 
flights  of  harpy  flies  who  pursued  and  lighted  upon  their  prey  even  in  the  very 
scales);  which  purchase  I  made  not  only  with  an  eye  to  the  little  ones  at  home, 
but  also  as  a  figurative  reproof  of  that  too-frequent  habit  of  my  mind,  which,  forget- 
ting the  due  order  of  chronology,  will  often  persuade  me  that  the  happy  scepter 
of  Saturn  is  stretched  over  this  Astraea-forsaken  nineteenth  century. 

Having  glanced  at  the  ledger  of  Glory  under  the  title  Sawin,  B.,  let  us  extend 
our  investigations,  and  discover  if  that  instructive  Volume  does  not  contain  some 
charges  more  personally  interesting  to  ourselves.  I  think  we  should  be  more  eco- 
nomical of  our  resources,  did  we  thoroughly  appreciate  the  fact,  that,  whenever 
Brother  Jonathan  seems  to  be  thrusting  his  hand  into  his  own  pocket,  he  is,  in  fact, 
picking  ours.  I  confess  that  the  late  muck  which  the  country  has  been  running  has 
materially  changed  my  views  as  to  the  best  method  of  raising  revenue.  If,  by 
means  of  direct  taxation,  the  bills  for  every  extraordinary  outlay  were  brought 
under  our  immediate  eye,  so  that,  like  thrifty  housekeepers,  we  could  see  where 
and  how  fast  the  money  was  -going,  we  should  be  less  likely  to  commit  extrava- 
gances. At  present,  these  things  are  managed  in  such  a  hugger-mugger  way, 
that  we  know  not  what  we  pay  for;  the  poor  man  is  charged  as  much  as  the  rich; 
and,  while  we  are  saving  and  scrimping  at  the  spigot,  the  government  is  drawing 
off  at  the  bung.  If  we  could  know  that  a  part  of  the  money  we-  expend  for  tea  and 
coffee  goes  to  buy  powder  and  balls,  and  that  it  is  Mexican  blood  which  makes  the 
clothes  on  our  backs  more  costly,  it  would  set  some  of  us  a-thinking.  During  the 
present  fall,  I  have  often  pictured  to  myself  a  government  official  entering  my  study, 
and  handing  me  the  following  bill :  — 

WASHINGTON,  Sept.  30,  1848. 
KEV.  HOMER  WILBUR  to  Uncle  Samuel,  Dr. 

To  his  share  of  work  done  in  Mexico  on  partnership  account,  sundry  jobs,  as 

below:  — 
„  killing,  maiming,  and  wounding  about  5,000  Mexicans        ....  $2.00 

„  slaughtering  one  woman  carrying  water  to  wounded  .         .         .         ...       .10 

„  extra  work  on  two  different  sabbaths  (one  bombardment  and  one  assault), 
whereby  the  Mexicans  were  prevented  from  defiling  themselves  with 

the  idolatries  of  high  mass 3.50 

„  throwing  an  especially  fortunate  and  Protestant  bombshell  into  the  Cathe- 
dral at  Vera  Cruz,  whereby  several  female  Papists  were  slain  at  the 

altar  .  50 

„  his  proportion  of  cash  paid  for  conquered  territory      .....    1.75 

„  do.  do.  for  conquering      do.         .....    1.50 

„  manuring  do.  with  new  superior  compost  called  "  American  Citizen  "       .      .50 

„  extending  the  area  of  Freedom  and  Protestantism 01 

„  glory     .        .     '-;•:  wl?       .  •     , jOl 

$9.b7 

Immediate  payment  is  requested. 

"N.  B.  —  Thankful  for  former  favors,  U.  S.  requests  a  continuance  of  patronage. 
Orders  executed  with  neatness  and  dispatch.  Terms  as  low  as  those  of  any  other 
contractor  for  the  same  kind  and  style  of  work. 


100  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

I  can  fancy  the  official  answering  my  look  of  horror  with,  "  Yes,  sir;  it  looks 
like  a  high  charge,  sir:  but,  in  these  day?,  slaughtering  is  slaughtering."  Verily,  I 
would  that  every  one  understood  that  it  was  >,  for  it  goes  about  obtaining  money 
under  the  false  pretence  of  being  glory.  For  me,  I  have  an  imagination  which  plays 
me  uncomfortable  tricks.  It  happens  to  me  sometimes  to  see  a  slaughterer  on  his 
way  home  from  his  day's  work;  and  forthwith  my  imagination  puts  a  cocked  hat 
upon  his  head,  and  epaulets  upon  his  shoulders,  and  sets  him  up  as  a  candidate  for 
the  Presidency.  So  also,  on  a  recent  public  occasion,  as  the  place  assigned  to  the 
'•Reverend  Clergy"  is  just  behind  that  of  "Officers  of  the  Army  and  Navy"  in 
processions,  it  was  my  fortune  to  be  seated  at  the  dinner-table  over  against  one  of 
these  respectable  persons.  He  was  arrayed  as  (out  of  his  own  profession)  only 
kings,  court-officers,  and  footmen  are  in  Europe,  and  Indians  in  America.  Now, 
what  does  my  over-officious  imagination  but  set  to  work  upon  him,  strip  him  of  his 
gay  livery,  and  present  him  to  me  coatle.ssj  his  trousers  thrust  into  the  tops  of  a 
pair  of  boots  thick  with  clotted  blood,  and  a  basket  on  his  arm  out  of  which  lolled  a 
gore-smeared  axe,  thereby  destroying  my  relish  for  the  temporal  mercies  upon  the 
board  before  me !  H.  w. 


ED  GAB  'ALLAH    POE. 

BORN  JANUARY,  1811,  BALTIMORE,  MD. 

A  writer  of  undoubted  poetical  genius,  but  so  prejudiced  in  his  tastes,  and  so 

erratic  in  his  life,  that  he  left  no  fitting  monument  of  his  power.  "  The  Bells,'' 

'•  Annabel  Lee,"  and  "  The  Raven,"  are'his  best-known  pieces.     He  died  in  Balti- 
more, Oct.  7,  1849. 


THE   RAVEN* 

OXCE  upon  a  midnight  dreary,  while  I  pondered,  weak  and  weary, 
Over  many  a  quaint  and  curious  volume  of  forgotten  lore, 
While  I  nodded,  nearly  napping,  suddenly  there  came  a  tapping, 
As  of  some  one  gently  rapping.  —  rappinir  at  my  chamber-door. 
"  "Us  some  visitor,"  I  muttered,  "  tapping  at  my  chamber-door, — 
Only  this,  and  nothing  more." 

Ah !  distinctly  I  remember :  it  was  in  the  bleak  December, 
And  each  separate  dying  ember  wrought  its  ghost  upon  the  floor. 
Eagerly  I  wished  the"  morrow  :  vainly  I  had  sought  to  borrow 
From  my  books  surcease  of  sorrow.  —  sorrow  for  the  lost  Lenore ; 
For  the  rare  and  radiant  maiden  whom  the  angels  name  Lenore,  — 
Nameless  here  for  evermore. 

*  This  poem  is  justly  celebrated  as  unique  in  its  expression,  and  unrivalled   in  the 
wild,  weird  fancy  of  its  conception. 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE.  101 

And  the  silken,  sad, 'uncertain  rustling  of  each  purple  curtain 
Thrilled  me,  filled  me  with  fantastic  terrors  never  felt  before ; 
So  that  now,  to  still  the  beating  of  my  heart,  I  stood  repeating,,  - 
"  'Tis  some  visitor  entreating  entrance  at  my?cl»',a<nber-door,<~-- »  - ' 


Some  late  visitor  entreating  entrance  at 

This  it  is,  and,  nothing  inore."  ,;'.',>   ;  ',    ^ 

Presently  my  soul  grew  stronger:  hesitating', tlien  no  longer,' 
"  Sir,"  said  I,  "  or  madam,  truly  your  forgiveness  I  implore  ; 
But  the  fact  is,  I  was  napping ;  and  so  gently  you  came  rapping, 
And  so  faintly  you  came  tapping,  tapping  at  my  chaniber-:door, 
That  I  scarce  was  sure  I  heard  you."     Here  I  opened  wide  the  door  : 
Parkness  there,  and  nothing  more. 

Deep  into  that  darkness  peering,  long  I  stood  there,  wondering,  fearing, 
Doubting,  dreaming  dreams  no  mortal  ever  dared  to  dream  before  : 
But  the  silence  was  unbroken,  and  the  stillness  gave  no  token  ; 
And  the  only  word  there  spoken  was  the  whispered  word,  "  Lenore ! " 
This  I  whispered,  and  an  echo  murmured  back  the  word,  '-'•  Lenore  !  " 
Merely  this,  and  nothing  more. 

Back  into  the  chamber  turning,  all  my  soul  within  me  burning, 
Soon  again  I  heard  a  tapping  something  louder  than  before. 
"  Surely,"  said  I,  "  surely  that  is  something  at  my  window-lattice : 
Let  me  see,  then,  what  thereat  is,  and  this  mystery  explore  | 
Let  my  heart  be  still  a  moment,  and  this  mystery  explore. 

'Tis  the  wind,  and  nothing  more  !  " 

Open  here  I  flung  the  shutter;  when,  with  many  a  flirt  and  flutter, 
In  there  stepped  a  stately  Haven  of  the  saintly  days  of  yore. 
Not  the  least  obeisance  made  he ;  not  a  minute  stopped  or  staid  he; 
But,  with  mien  of  lord  or  lady,  perched  above  my  chamber-door; 
Perched  upon  a  bust  of  Pallas,  just  above  my  chamber-door; 
Perched  and  sat,  and  nothing  more. 

Then  this  ebony  bird  beguiling  my  sad  fancy  into  smiling 
By  the  grave  and  stern  decorum  of  the  countenance  it  wore, 
"  Though  thy  crest  be  shorn  and  shaven,  thou,"I  said,  "  art  sure  no  craven, 
Ghastly,  grim,  and  ancient  Raven,  wandering  from  the  nightly  shore : 
Tell  me  what  thy  lordly  name  is  on  the  night's  Plutonian  shore," 
Quoth  the  R.aven,  "  ^Nevermore  I  " 

Much  I  marveled  this  ungainly  fowl  to  hear  discourse  so  plainly, 
Though  its  answer  little  meaning,  little  relevancy,  bore ; 
For  we  can  not  help  agreeing,  that  no  living  human  being 
Ever  yet  was  blessed  with  seeing  bird  above  his  chamber-door  — 
Bird  or  beast  upon  the  sculptured  bust  above  his  chamber-door  — 
With  such  name  as  "  Nevermore." 

But  the  Raven,  sitting  lonely  on  that  placid  bust,  spoke  only 
That  one  word,  as  if  his  soul  in  that  one  word  he  did  outpour. 
Nothing  further  then  he  uttered ;  not  a  feather  then  he  flattered  ; 
Till  I  scarcely  more  than  muttered,  "  Other  friends  have;  down  before : 
On  the  morrow  he  will  leave  me,  as  my  hopes  have  flown  before." 
Then  the  bird  said,  "  Nevermore  !  " 


W'2  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Startled  at  the  stillness  broken  by  reply  so  aptly  spoken, 
'•  Doubtless."  said  I.  "  what  it  utters  is  its  only  stock  and  store, 
Caught  from  some  unhappy  master,  whom  unmerciful  disaster 
Followe  1  1'usr  and  followed  faster,  till  his  songs  one  burden  bore, 
Till  the  dirges  of  his  hope  that  melancholy  burden  bore 
•    •  .     ,  Of  '  Never,  nevermore.'  " 

.  ;     • 

But,  the  Raven  still  beguiling  all  rny  sad  soul  into  smiling, 

Straight   I  wheeled  a  cushioned  seat  in  front  of  bird   and  bust   and 

door; 

Then,  upon  the  velvet  sinking,  I  betook  myself  to  linking 
Fancy  unto  fancy,  thinking  what  this  ominous  bird  of  yore  — 
What  this  grim,  ungainly,  ghastly,  gaunt,  and  ominous  bird  of  yore  — 
Meant  in  croaking  "  Nevermore." 

This  I  sat  engaged  in  guessing,  but  no  syllable  expressing 
To  the  towl  whose  tiery  eyes  now  burned  into  my  bosom's  core,  — 
This  and  more  I  sat  divining,  with  my  head  at  ease  reclining 
( )n  the  cushion's  velvet  lining  that  the  lamplight  gloated  o'er, 
But  whose  velvet  violet  lining,  with  the  lamplight  gloating  o'er, 
She  shall  press  —  ah,  nevermore ! 

Then  methought  the  air  grew  denser,  perfumed  from  an  unseen  censer 

Swung  by  seraphim,  whose  footfalls  tinkled  on  the  tufted  floor. 

4-  Wretch  ! "  I  cried,  "  thy  god  hath  lent  thee,  by  these  angels  he  hath 

sent  thee 

Respite  —  respite  and  nepenthe  —  from  thy  memories  of  Lenore  ! 
Quaff,  oh !  quaff  this  kind  nepenthe,  and  forget  this  lost  Lenore  !  " 
Quoth  the  Raven,  "Nevermore!" 

"  Prophet !  "  said  I,  "  thing  of  evil !  —  prophet  still,  if  bird  or  devil,  — 
Whether  tempter  sent,  or  whether  tempest  tossed  thee  here  ashore, 
Desolate,  yet  all  undaunted,  on  this  desert  land  enchanted, 
On  this  home  by  horror  haunted,  —  tell  me  truly,  I  implore. 
Is  there,  is  there,  balm  in  Gilead  ?  —  tell  me,  tell  me,  I  implore  !  " 
Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevermore  !  " 

"  Prophet !  "  said  I,  "  thing  of  evil !  —  prophet  still,  if  bird  or  devil,  — 
By  that  heaven  that  bends  above  us,  by  that  God  we  both  adore, 
Tell  this  soul,  with  sorrow  laden,  if  within  the  distant  Aiden 
It  shall  clasp  a  sainted  maiden  whom  the  angels  name  Lenore,  — 
Clasp  a  rare  and  radiant  maiden  whom  the  angels  name  Lenore  ! " 
Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevermore  ! " 

w  Be  that  word  our  sign  of  parting,  bird  or  fiend  !  "  I  shrieked,  upstart- 
ing : 

"  Get  thee  back  into  the  tempest  and  the  night's  Plutonian  shore ! 

Leave  no  black  plume  as  a  token  of  that  lie  thy  soul  hath  spoken ! 

Leave  my  loneliness  unbroken  !  quit  the  bust  above  my  door ! 

Take  thy  beak  from  out   my  heart,  and   take  thy  form  from   off  my 
door !  " 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevermore  ! " 


WILLIS,    HOLMES,    SAXE,   ETC.  103 

And  the  Raven,  never  flitting,  still  is  sitting,  still  is  sitting, 
On  the  pallid  bust  of  Pallas,  just  above  my  chamber-door ; 
And  his  eyes  have  all  the  seeming  of  a  demon's  that  is  dreaming, 
And  the  lamplight  o'er  him  streaming  throws  his  shadow  on  the  floor ; 
And  my  soul  from  out  that  shadow  that  lies  floating  on  the  floor 
Shall  be  lifted  —  nevermore  ! 


This  volume  is  not  intended  to  take  the  place  of  a  Dictionary  of  Authors,  whose 
names  alone  would  fill  a  greater  number  of  pages  than  can  be  given  to  the  whole 
book;  much  less  can  it  afford  space  for  the  exact  enumeration  of  all  the  produc- 
tions of  those  mentioned.  More  extended  notices  of  them  and  their  works  can  be 
obtained  by  the  pupil,  as  an  excellent  general  exercise,  from  Allibone's  "  Diction- 
ary of  Authors"  and  "The  Encyclopaedia  Americana;"  copies  of  which  works 
should  be  in  every  high-school  library.  To  those  who  may  be  disappointed  by  not 
finding  the  name  of  a  favorite  author  in  the  contemporary  lists,  we  can  only  say, 
our  space  could  not  include  everybody  Undoubtedly,  among  modern  authors 
whose  places  in  our  literature  have  not  yet  been  fixed  permanently  by  time  and 
critics,  some  names  of  importance  will  have  been  overlooked:  at  the  same  time,  it 
is  believed,  that  having  studied  carefully  the  selections  here  given,  and  become 
acquainted  with  the  authors  and  books  referred  to  in  this  volume,  the  pupil  will 
have  attended  to  the  most  important  part  of  the  literature  of  the  language,  and 
been  successfully  introduced  to  its  curiosities,  philological  and  historical. 

JOHN  GODFREY  SAXE.  —  Born  June  2,  1816,  Highgate,  Vt.  The  pun  and  fun 
loving  reader  will  find  both  in  abundance  in  his  two  volumes  of  humorous  and 
satirical  poems. 

THEODORE  TILTON.  —  Editor  of  "  The  New- York  Independent."  A  writer  of. 
great  power  and  true  poetic  genius.  One  volume  of  poems. 

FITZ-GREENE  HALLECK. —  "  Marco  Bozzaris,"  and  many  other  poems. 

JAMES  GATES  PERCIVAL. —  "Prometheus,"  "The  Dream  of  Day,  and  Other 
Poems." 

RICHARD  H.  DANA.  — "The  Buccaneer,"  "  Poems  and  Prose  Writings,"  two 
volumes. 

JOHN  PIERPONT. — "  Airs  of  Palestine,"  volume  of  poems,  and  series  of  Eeaders. 

JOSEPH  HOPKINSON.  —  "Hail  Columbia." 

FRANCIS  S.  KEY.  —  "  Star-spangled  Banner." 

JOHN  HOWARD  PAYNE. — "Home,  Sweet  Home." 

SAMUEL  WOODWORTH.  —  "Old  Oaken  Bucket." 

SARAH  JANE  CLARKE,  "  Grace  Greenwood,"  now  Mrs.  S.  J.  Lippincotf,  has 
written  several  very  popular  volumes  of  prose  and  poetry,  and  books  for  children. 

LYDIA  HUNTLEY  SIGOURNEY. —  Called  the  Mrs.  Hemans  of  America. 

MARIA  BROOKS.  —  "  Zophiel,  or  the  Bride  of  Seven." 

CHARLES  FENNO  HOFFMAN.  —  "  The  Vigil  of  Faith." 

Other  Americans  who  have  written  in  verse  of  more  or  less  poetical  merit, 
nearly  all  of  whom  have  published  one  or  more  volumes :  — 

PARK  BENJAMIN.  GEORGE  P.  MORRIS. 

CHARLES  SPRAGUE.  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

JULIA  WARD  HOWE.  MARY  S.  B.  DANA. 

WALT  WHITMAN.  ANNA  PYRE  DINNIES. 

GEORGE  HENRY  BOKER.  MARY  E.  BROOKS. 

ELIZABETH  Ho  WELL.  ELIZABETH  OAKES  SMITH. 

AMKLIA  B.  WELBY.  CARLOS  WILCOX. 


104 


ENGLISH  LITEPwATUKE. 


MARIA  WHITE  (LOWELL). 
A.  CLEVELAND  CUXE. 
LUCY  HOOPER. 
PHILIP  PENDLETON  COOK. 
PHILIP  FRENEAU. 
JOHN  TKUMBULL. 
JOEL  BARLOW. 
SAMUEL  J.  SMITH. 
GRENVILLE  MELLEN. 
JAMES  A.  HILLHOUSE. 
THOMAS  MCKELLAR. 
JONATHAN  LAWRENCE. 
JAMES  G.  BROOKS. 
THOMAS  BUCHANAN  READ. 
JAMES  T.  FIELDS. 
ALICE  and  PHCEBE  GARY. 
RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 
HENRY  THEO.  TUCKERMAN. 
WASH  I  NGTi  >N  A  LL.STC  )N. 
WILLIAM  H.  BURLEIGH. 
HANNAH  F.  GOULD. 
RICHARD  HENRY  STODDARD. 
ALBERT  B.  STREET. 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPA.V. 

JOHN  G.  C.  BRAINARD. 

ISAAC  MC-LELLAN. 

GEORGE  \V.  DOANE. 

BAYARD  TAYLOR. 

PHILLIS  WIIEATLEY  PETERS. 

ALBERT  PIKE. 

WILLIAM  GILMOKE  SIMMS. 

GEORGE  DENNISON  PRENTICK. 

WILLIS  GAYLORD  CLARK. 

EDITH  MAY. 

SARAH  JOSEPHA  HALE. 

EMMA  C.  EMBURY. 

FRANCIS  SARGENT  OSGOOD. 

ELIZABETH  M.  CHANDLER. 

GEORGE  \V.  BETHUNE. 

EDWARD  C.  PINKNEY. 

ROBERF  T.  CONRAD. 

ROBERT  C.  SANDS. 

JOSEPH  R.  DRAKE. 

RUFUS  DAWES. 

WILLIAM  D.  GALLAGHER, 


HENRY    WARD     BEECHER. 

BORN  JUNE  24,  1813,  IN  LITCHFIELD,  CONN. 

Pastor  of  Plymouth  Church,  Brooklyn,  N.Y.,  since  1847.  Author  of  several 
volumes, — "Letters  to  Young  Men,"  "Star  Papers,  or  Experiences  of  Art  and 
Nature,"  and  "  Xorwo<Kl,"  which  first  appeared  in  "  The  New-York  Ledger,"  a 
healthy,  vigorous  presentation  of  New-England  village-life.  "  Life -Thoughts, 
gathered  from  the  Extemporaneous  Discourses  of  Henry  Ward  Beecher,"  by  EDNA 
DEAN  PROCTOR,  and  "Notes  from  Plymouth  Pulpit,"  by  AUGUSTA  MOORE,  illus- 
trate well  the  freshness  and  richness  of  his  style.  Sincerely  in  love  with  Nature 
as  well  as  with  man,  and  untrammeled  by  traditions  and  dogmas,  he  speaks  to  his 
fellow-man  with  the  eloquence  of  truth,  with  appreciative  sympathy ;  aud  is  the 
most  popular  pulpit  orator  iu  America. 


THE  MONTHS. 

1.  JAXUARY  !  Darkness  and  light  reign  alike.  Snow  is  on 
the  ground.  Cold  is  in  the  air.  The  winter  is  blossoming  in 
frost-flowers.  Why  is  the  ground  hidden?  Why  is  the  earth 
white  ?  So  hath  God  wiped  out  the  past,  so  hath  he  spread  the 
earth  like  an  unwritten  page  for  a  new  year !  Old  sounds  are 
silent  in  the  forest  and  in  the  air.  Insects  are  dead,  birds  are 
gone,  leaves  have  perished,  and  all  the  foundations  of  soil  remain. 
Upon  this  lies,  white  and  tranquil,  the  emblem  of  newness  and 
purity,  the  virgin  robes  of  the  yet  unstained  year. 


HENRY   WARD    BEECIIER.  105 

2.  FEBRUARY  !     The  day  gains  upon  the  night.     The  strife  of 
heat  arid  cold  is  scarce  begun.     The  winds  that  come  from  the 
desolate  north  wander  through  forests  of  frost-cracking  boughs, 
and  shout  in  the  air  the  weird  cries  of  the  northern  bergs  and 
ice-resounding  oceans.     Yet,  as  the  month  wears  on,  the  silent 
work  begins,  though  storms  rage.     The  earth  is  hidden  yet,  but 
not  dead.     The  sun  is  drawing  near.     The  storms  cry  out.     But 
the  Sun  is  not  heard  in  all  the  heavens.     Yet  he  whispers  words 
of  deliverance  into  the  ears  of  every  sleeping  seed  and  root  that 
lies  beneath  the  snow.     The  day  opens ;  but  the  night  shuts  the 
earth  with  its  frost-lock.     They  strive  together;  but  the  darkness 
and  the  cold  are  growing  weaker.     On  some  nights  they  forget 
to  work. 

3.  MARCH  !     The  conflict  is  more  turbulent ;  but  the  victory  is 
gained.     The  world  awakes.     There  come  voices  from  long-hid- 
den birds.     The  smell  of  the  soil  is  in  the  air.     The  sullen  ice, 
retreating  from  open  field  and  all  sunny  places,  has  slunk  to  the 
north  of  every  fence  and  rock.     The  knolls  and  banks  that  face 
the  east  or  south  sigh  for  release,  and  begin  to  lift  up  a  thousand 
tiny  palms. 

4.  APRIL  !     The  singing  month.     Many  voices  of  many  birds 
call  for  resurrection  over  the  graves  of  flowers,  and  they  come 
forth.     Go  see  what  they  have  lost.     What  have  ice  and  snow 
and  storm  done  unto  them  ?     How  did  they  fall  into  the  earth 
stripped  and  bare?  —  how  do  they  come  forth  opening  and  glori- 
fied ?     Is  it,  then,  so  fearful  a  thing  to  lie  in  the  grave  ?     In  its 
wild  career,  shaking  and  scourged  of  storms  through  its  orbit,  the 
earth  has  scattered  away  no  treasures.     The  Hand  that  governs 
in  April  governed  in  January.     You  have  not  lost  what  God  has 
only  hidden.     You  lose   nothing  in  struggle,  in  trial,  in   bitter 
distress.     If  called  to  shed  thy  joys  as  trees  their  leaves,  if  the 
affections  be  driven  back  into  the  heart  as  the  life  of  flowers  to 
their  roots,  yet  be  patient.     Thou  shalt  lift  up  thy  leaf-covered 
boughs  again.    Thou  shalt  shoot  forth  from  thy  roots  new  flowers. 
Be  patient.     Wait.     When  it  is  February,  April  is  not  far  off. 
Secretly  the  plants  love  each  other. 

5.  MAY  !    0  flower-month  !  perfect  the  harvests  of  flowers ;  be 
not  niggardly.      Search  out  the   cold  and  resentful  nooks  that 
refused  the  sun,  casting  back  its  rays  from  disdainful  ice,  and  plant 
flowers  even  there.     There  is  goodness  in  the  worst.     There  is 
warmth  in  the  coldness.     The  silent,  hopeful,  unbreathing  sun, 
that  will  not  fret  or  despond,  but  carries  a  placid  brow  through 
the  un wrinkled  heavens,  at  length  conquers  the  very  rocks ;  and 
lichens  grow,  and  inconspicuously  blossom.    What  shall  not  Time 
do  that  carries  in  its  bosom  Love  ? 

G.JUNE!     Rest!     This  is  the  year's  bower.     Sit  down  within 


106  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

it.  Wipe  from  thy  brow  the  toil.  The  elements  are  thy  servants. 
The  dews  bring  thee  jewels.  The  winds  bring  perfume.  The 
Earth  shows  thee  all  her  treasure.  The  forests  sing  to  thee.  The 
air  is  all  sweetness,  as  if  all  the  angels  of  God  had  gone  through 
it,  bearing  spices  homeward.  The  storms  are  but  as  flocks  of 
mighty  birds  that  spread  their  wings,  and  sing  in  the  high  heaven. 
Speak  to  God  now,  and  say,  "  0  Father !  where  art  thou  ?  "  and 
out  of  every  flower  and  tree,  and  silver  pool,  and  twined  thicket, 
a  voice  will  come,  "  God  is  in  me."  The  earth  cries  to  the 
heavens,  "  God  is  here ! "  and  the  heavens  cry  to  the  earth, 
"  God  is  here  ! "  The  sea  claims  him.  The  land  hath  him.  His 
footsteps  are  upon  the  deep.  He  sitteth  up.on  the  circle  of  the 
earth.  0  sunny  joys  of  the  sunny  month,  yet  soft  and  temper- 
ate, how  soon  will  the  eager  months  that  come  burning  from  the 
equator  scorch  you ! 

7.  JULY!     E-ouse  up!     The  temperate  heats  that  filled  the  air 
are  raging  forward  to  glow  and  overfill  the  earth  with  hotness. 
Must  it  be  thus  in  every  thing,  that  June  shall  rush  toward  Au- 
gust ?     Or  is  it  not  that  there  are  deep  and  unreached  places  for 
whose   sake   the  probing  sun  pierces  down  its  glowing  hands  ? 
There  is  a  deeper  work  than  June  can  perform.     The  Earth  shall 
drink  of  the  heat  before  she  knows  her  nature  or  her  strength. 
Then  shall  she  bring  forth  to  the  uttermost  the  treasures  of  her 
bosom ;  for  there  are  things  hidden  far  down,  and  the  deep  things 
of  life  are  not  known  till  the  fire  reveals  them. 

8.  AUGUST!     Reign,  thou  fire-month!     What  canst  thou  do? 
Neither  shalt  thou  destroy  the  earth,  whom  frosts  and  ice  could 
not  destroy.    The  vines  droop,  the  trees  stagger,  the  broad-palmed 
leaves  give  thee  their  moisture,  and  hang  down ;  but  every  night 
the  dew  pities  them.      Yet  there  are  flowers  that  look  thee  in  the 
eye,  fierce  Sun,  all  day  long,  and  wink  not.     This  is  the  rejoicing 
month  for  joyful  insects.     If  our  unselfish  eye  would  behold  it,  it 
is  the  most  populous  and  the  happiest  month.     The  herds  plash 
in  the  sedge;   fish  seek  the  deeper  pools;   forest  fowl  lead  out 
their  young;    the  air  is  resonant  of  insect  orchestras,  each  one 
carrying  his  part  in  Nature's  grand  harmony.     August,  thou  art 
the  ripeness  of  the  year!     Thou  art  the  glowing  center  of  the 
circle ! 

9.  SEPTEMBER!     There   are  thoughts  in  thy  heart  of  death. 
Thou  art  doing  a  secret  work,  and  heaping  up  treasures  for  an- 
other year.     The  unborn  infant-buds  which  thou  art  tending  are 
more   than  all  the  living  leaves.     Thy  robes  are  luxuriant,  but 
worn  with  softened  pride.     More  dear,  less  beautiful,  than  June, 
thou  art  the  heart's  month.     Not  till  the  heats  of  summer  are 
gone,  while  all  its  growths  remain,  do  we  know  the  fullness  of  life. 
Thy  hands  are  stretched  out,  and  clasp  the  glowing  palm  of  Au- 


HENRY    WARD   BEECHER.  107 

gust  and   the   fruit-smelling  hand  of   October.      Thou   dividest 
them  asunder,  anJ.  art  thyself  molded  of  them  both. 

10.  OCTOBEII  !     Orchard  of  the  year,  bend  thy  boughs  to  the 
earth,  redolent  of  glowing  fruit !     Ripened  seeds  shake  in  their 
pods.     Apples  drop  in  the  stillest  hours.     Leaves  begin  to  let  go 
when  no  wind  is  out,  and  swing  in  long  waverings  to  the  earth, 
which  they  touch  without  sound,  and  lie  looking  up,  till  winds 
rake  them,  and  heap  them  in  fence-corners.      When  the   gales 
come  through,  the  trees,  the  yellow  leaves  trail  like  sparks  at 
night  behind  the  flying  engine.     The  woods  are  thinner,  so  that 
we  can  see  the  heavens  plainer  as  we  lie  dreaming  on  the  yet 
warm  moss  by  the   singing  spring.     The  days  are  calm.     The 
nights  are  tranquil.    The  Year's  work  is  done.    She  walks  in  gor- 
geous apparel,  looking  upon  her  long  labor ;  and  her  serene  eye 
saith,  "  It  is  good." 

11.  NOVEMBER  !    Patient  watcher,  thou  art  asking  to  lay  down 
thy  tasks.     Life  to  thee  now  is  only  a  task  accomplished.     In 
the  night-time  thou  liest  down,  and  the  messengers  of  winter  deck 
thee  with  hoar-frosts  for  thy  burial.    The  morning  looks  upon  thy 
jewels,  and  they  perish  while  it  gazes.     Wilt  thou  not  come,  O 
December  ? 

12.  DECEMBER  !    Silently  the  month  advances.    There  is  noth- 
ing to  destroy,  but  much  to  bury.     Bury,  then,  thou  snow,  that 
slumberously  fallest  through  the  still  air,  the  hedge-rows  of  leaves  ! 
Muffle  thy  cold  wool  about  the  feet  of  shivering  trees  !     Bury  all 
that  the  year  hath  known  !  and  let  thy  brilliant  stars,  that  never 
shine  as  they  do  in  thy  frostiest  nights,  behold  the  work !     But 
know,  0  month  of  destruction  !  that  in  thy  constellation  is  set  that 
Star,  whose  rising  is  the  sign,  for  evermore,  that  there  is  life  in 
death.     Thou  art  the 'month  of  resurrection.     In  thee  the  Christ 
came.     Every  star   that  looks  down  upon  thy  labor  and  toil  of 
burial  knows   that   all    things  shall  come   forth   again.      Storms 
shall  sob  themselves  to  sleep.      Silence  shall  find  a  voice.     Death 
shall  live;  Life  .shall  rejoice;  Winter  shall  break  forth,  and  blos- 
som into  Spring  ;  Spring  shall  put  on  her  glorious  apparel,  and  be 
called. Summer.     It  is  life,  it  is  life,  through  the  whole  year ! 


A   DISCOURSE    OF   FLOWERS. 


HAPPY  is  the  man  that  loves  flowers !  —  happy,  even  if  it  be  a 
love  adulterated  with  vanity  and  strife ;  for  human  passions 
nestle  in  flower-lovers  too.  Some  employ  their  zeal  chiefly  in 
horticultural  competitions,  or  in  the  ambition  of  floral  shows. 
Others  love  flowers  as  curiosities,  and  search  for  novelties,  for 
"  sports,"  and  vegetable  monstrosities.  We  have  been  led  through 


108  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

costly  collections  by  men  whose  chief  pleasure  seemed  to  be  in  the 
effect  which  their  treasures  produced  on  others,  not  on  themselves. 
Their  love  of  flowers  was  only  the  love  of  being  praised  for  hav- 
ing them.  But  there  is  a  choice  in  vanities  and  ostentations.  A 
contest  of  roses  is  better  than  of  horses.  We  had  rather  be  vain 
of  the  best  tulip,  dahlia,  or  ranunculus,  than  of  the  best  shot.  Of 
all  fools,  a  floral  fool  deserves  the  eminence. 

But,  these  aside,  blessed  be  the  man  that  really  loves  flowers ! 
—  loves  them  for  their  own  sakes,  for  their  beauty,  their  associa- 
tions, the  joy  they  have  given  and  always  will  grve ;  so  that  he 
would  sit  down  among  them  as  friends  and  companions,  if  there 
was  not  another  creature  on  earth  to  admire.or  praise  them.  But 
such  men  need  no  blessing  of  mine :  the}*  are  blessed  of  God. 
Did  he  not  make  the  world  for  such  men  ?  Are  they  not  clearly 
the  owners  of  the  world,  and  the  richest  of  all  men  ? 

It  is  the  end  of  Art  to  inoculate  men  with  the  love  of  Nature. 
But  those  who  have  a  passion  for  Nature  in  the  natural  way  need 
no  pictures  nor  galleries.  Spring  is  their  designer,  and  the  whole 
year  their  artist. 

He  who  only  does  not  appreciate  floral  beauty  is  to  be  pitied 
like  any  other  man  who  is  born  imperfect.  It  is  a  misfortune  not 
unlike  blindness.  But  men  who  contemptuously  reject  flowers  as 
effeminate,  and  unworthy  of  manhood,  reveal  a  certain  coarseness. 
Were  flowers  fit  to  eat  or  drink,  were  they  stimulative  of  passions, 
or  could  they  be  gambled  with  like  stocks  and  public  consciences, 
they  would  take  them  up  just  where  finer  minds  would  drop  them, 
who  love  them  as  revelations  of  God's  sense  of  beaut}7,  as  ad- 
dressed to  the  taste,  and  to  something  finer  and  deeper  than 
taste,  —  to  that  power  within  us  which  spiritualizes  matter,  and 
communes  with  God  through  his  work,  and  not  for  their  paltry 
market-value. 

Many  persons  lose  all  enjoyment  of  many  flowers  by  indulging 
false  associations.  There  be  some  who  think  that  no  weed  can  be 
of  interest  as  a  flower.  But  all  flowers  are  weeds  where  they 
grow  wildly  and  abundantly ;  and  somewhere  our  rarest  flowers 
are  somebody's  commonest.  Flowers  growing  in  noisome  places, 
in  desolate  corners,  upon  rubbish,  or  rank  desolation,  become  dis- 
agreeable by  association.  Roadside  flowers,  ineradicable,  and  hardy 
beyond  all  discouragement,  lose  themselves  from  our  sense  of  deli- 
cacy and  protection.  And,  generally,  there  is  a  disposition  to 
undervalue  common  flowers.  There  are  few  that  will  trouble 
themselves  to  examine  minutely  a  blossom  that  they  have  seen 
and  neglected  from  their  childhood ;  and  yet,  if  they  would  but 
question  such  flowers,  and  commune  with  them,  they  would  often 
be  surprised  to  find  extreme  beauty  where  it  had  long  been  over- 
looked. 


HENRY    WARD   BEECHER.  109 

If  a  plant  be  uncouth,  it  has  no  attractions  to  us  simply  because 
it  has  been  brought  from  the  ends  of  the  earth,  and  is  a  "  great 
rarity ; "  if  it  has  beauty,  it  is  none  the  less,  but  a  grdat  deal 
more  attractive  to  us  because  it  is  common.  A  very  common 
flower  adds  generosity  to  beauty.  It  gives  joy  to  the  poor,  the 
rude,  and  to  the  multitudes  who  could  have  no  flowers  were  Na- 
ture to  charge  a  price  for  her  blossoms.  Is  a  cloud  less  beautiful, 
or  a  sea,  or  a  mountain,  because  often  seen,  or  seen  by  millions  ? 

At  any  rate,  while  we  lose  no  fondness  for  eminent  and  accom- 
plished flowers,  we  are  conscious  of  a  growing  respect  for  the  floral 
democratic  throng.  There  is,  for  instance,  the  mullein,  of  but 
little  beauty  in  each  floweret,  but  a  brave  plant,  growing  cheer- 
fully and  heartily  out  of  abandoned  soils,  ruffling  its  root  about 
with  broad-palmed,  generous,  velvet  leaves,  and  erecting  there- 
from a  towering  spire  that  always  inclines  us  to  stop  for  a  kindly 
look.  This  fine  plant  is  left  by  most  people,  like  a  decayed  old 
gentleman,  to  a  good-natured  pity;  but  in  other  countries  it  is,  a. 
flower,  and  called  the  "  American  velvet-plant." 

We  confess  to  a  homely  enthusiasm  for  clover,  —not  the  white 
clover,  beloved  of  honey-bees,  but  the  red  clover,  It  holds  up 
its  round,  ruddy  face  and  honest  head  with  such  rustic  innocence ! 
Do  you  ever  see  it  without  thinking  of  a  sound,  sensible,  country 
lass,  sun-browned  and  fearless,  as  innocence  always  should  be  ? 
We  go  through  a  field  of  red  clover  like  Solomon  in  a  garden  of 
spices. 

There  is  the  burdock  too,  with  its  prickly  rosettes,  that  has 
little  beauty  or  value  except  (like  some  kind,  brown,  good-natured 
nurses)  as  an  amusement  to  children,  who  manufacture  baskets, 
houses,  and  various  marvelous  utensils,  of  its  burrs.  The  thistle 
is  a  prince.  Let  any  man  that  has  an  eye  for  beauty  take  a  view 
of  the  whole  plant,  and  where  will  he  see  more  expressive  grace 
and  symmetry?  and  where  is  there  a  more  kingly  flower?  To 
be  sure,  there  are  sharp  objections  to  it  in  a  bouquet.  Neither  is 
it  a  safe  neighbor  to  the  farm,  having  a  habit  of  scattering  its 
seeds  like  a  very  heretic.  But  most  gardeners  feel  toward  a  this- 
tle as  boys  toward  a  snake;  and  farmers,  with  more  reason,  dread 
it  like  a  plagua.  But  it  is  just  as  beautiful  as  if  it  were  a  univer- 
sal favorite. 

What  shall  we  say  of  mayweed,  irreverently  called  dog-fennel 
by  some  ?  Its  acrid  juice,  its  heavy,  pungent  odor,  make  it  dis- 
agreeable ;  and,  being  disagreeable,  its  enormous  Malthusian 
propensities  to  increase  render  it  hateful  to  damsels  of  white 
stockings,  compelled  to  walk  through  it  on  dewy  mornings. 
Arise,  0  scythe  !  and  devour  it. 

The  buttercup  is  a  flower  of  our  childhood,  and  very  brilliant 
in  our  eyes.  Its  strong  color,  seen  afar  oil]  often  provoked  its 


110  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

fate  ;  for  through  the  mowing-lot  we  went  after  it,  regardless  of 
orchard- grass  and  herd-grass,  plucking  down  its  long  slendei 
stems  clowned  with  golden  chalices,  until  the  father,  covetous  of 
hay,  shouted  to  us,  "Out  of  that  grass,  out  of  that  grass,  }*ou 
rogue ! " 

The  first  thing  that  defies  the  frost  in  spring  is  the  chickweed. 
It  will  open  its  floral  eye,  and  look  the  thermometer  in  the  face 
at  thirty-two  degrees.  It  leads  out  the  snowdrop  and  crocus. 
Its  blossom  is  diminutive :  and  no  wonder ;  for  it  begins  so  early 
in  the  season,  that  it  has  little  time  to  make  much  of  itself.  But, 
as  a  harbinger  and  herald,  let  it  not  be  forgotten. 

You  can  not  forget,  if  you  would,  those  golden  kisses  all  over 
the  cheeks  of  the  meadow,  queerly  called  daiiddioiis.  There  are 
many  greenhouse-blossoms  less  pleasing  to  us  than  these ;  and 
we  have  reached  through  many  a  fence  since  we  were  incarcerat- 
ed, like  them,  in  a  city,  to  .pluck  one  of  these  yellow  flower- 
drops.  Their  passing-away  is  more  spiritual  than  their  bloom. 
Nothing  can  be  more  airy  and  beautiful  than  the  transparent 
seed-globe,  —  a  fairy  dome  of  splendid  architecture. 

As  for  marigolds,  poppies,  hollyhocks,  and  valorous  sunflowers, 
we  shall  never  have  a  garden  without  them,  both  for  their  own 
sake,  and  for  the  sake  of  old-fashioned  folks  who  used  to  love 
them.  Morning-glories,  or,  to  call  them  by  their  city  name, 
the  convolvulus,  need  no  praising:  the  vine,  the  leaf,  the 
exquisite  vase-formed  flower,  the  delicate  and  various  colors,  will 
secure  it  from  neglect  while  taste  remains.  Grape-blossoms  and 
migiionnette  do  not  appeal  to  the  eye  ;  and,  if  they  were  selfish,  no 
man  would  care  for  them.  Yet,  because  they  pour  their  life  out 
in  fragrance,  the}*  are  always  loved ;  and,  like  homely  people  with 
noble  hearts,  they  seem  beautiful  by  association.  Nothing  that 
produces  constant  pleasure  in  us  can  fail  to  seem  beautiful.  We 
do  not  need  to  speak  for  that  universal  favorite,  the  rose.  As  a 
flower  is  the  finest  stroke  of  creation,  so  the  rose  is  the  happiest 
hit  among  flowers.  Yet,  in  the  feast  of  ever-blooming  roses  and 
of  double  roses,  we  are  in  danger  of  being  perverted  from  a  love 
of  simplicity  as  manifested  in  the  wild,  single  rose.  When  a 
man  can  look  upon  the  simple  wild-rose,  and  feel  no  pleasure,  his 
taste  has  been  corrupted. 

But  we  must  not  neglect  the  blossoms  of  fruit-trees.  What  a 
great  heart  an  apple-tree  must  have  !  What  generous  work  it 
makes  of  blossoming !  It  is  not  content  with  a  single  bloom  for 
each  apple  that  is  to  be ;  but  a  profusion,  a  prodigality  of  blossom 
there  must  be.  The  tree  is  but  a  huge  bouquet :  it  gives  you 
twenty  times  as  much  as  there  is  need  for,  and  evidently  because 
it  loves  to  blossom.  We  will  praise  this  virtuous  tree,  —  not 
beautiful  in  form,  often  clumpy,  cragged,  and  rude ;  but  it  is  glo- 


HENRY   WARD   BEECHER.  Ill 

rious  in  beauty  when  efflorescent.  Nor  is  it  a  beauty  only  at  a 
distance  and  in  the  mass.  Pluck  down  a  twig,  and  examine  as 
closely  as  you  will :  it  will  bear  the  nearest  looking.  The  sim- 
plicity and  purity  of  the  white  expanded  flower,  the  half-open 
buds  slightly  blushed,  the  little  pink-tipped  buds  unopen,  crowd- 
ing up  together  like  rosy  children  around  an  elder  brother  or 
sister,  —  can  any  thing  surpass  it?  Wh}',  here  is  a  cluster  more 
beautiful  than  any  you  can  make  up  artificially,  even  if  you  select 
from  the  whole  garden.  Wear  this  family  of  buds  for  my  sake. 
It  is  all  the  better  for  being  common.  I  love  a  flower  that  all 
may  have,  —  that  belongs  to  the  whole,  and  not  to  a  select  and 
exclusive  few.  Common,  forsooth  !  A  flower  can  not  be  worn  out 
by  much  looking  at  as  a  road  is  by  much  travel. 

How  one  exhales,  and  feels  his  childhood  coming  back  to  him, 
when,  emerging  from  the  hard^  and  hateful  city-streets,  he  sees 
orchards  and  gardens  in  sheeted  bloom,  —  plum,  cherry,  pear, 
peach,  and  apple,  waves  and  billows  of  blossoms  rolling  over  the 
hillsides,  and  down  through  the  levels  !  My  heart  runs  riot. 
This  is  a  kingdom  of  glory.  The  bees  know  it.  Are  the  blos- 
soms singing  ?  or  is  all  this  humming  sound  the  music  of  bees  ? 
The  frivolous  flies,  that  never  seem  to  be  thinking  of  any  thing, 
are  rather  sober  and  solemn  here.  Such  a  sight  is  equal  to  a 
sunset,  which  is  but  a  blossoming  of  the  clouds. 

We  love  to  fancy  that  a  flower  is  the  point  of  transition  at 
which  a  material  thing  touches  the  immaterial :  it  is  the  sentient, 
vegetable  soul.  We  ascribe  dispositions  to  it ;  we  treat  it  as  we 
would  an  innocent  child.  A  stem  or  root  has  no  suggestion  of 
life.  A  leaf  advances  toward  it;  and  some  leaves  are  as  fine  as 
flowers,  and  have,  moreover,  a  grace  of  motion  seldom  had  by 
flowers.  Flowers  have  an  expression  of  countenance  as  much 
as  men  or  animals.  Some  seem  to  smile ;  some  have  a  sad  ex- 
pression;  some  are  pensive  and  diffident;  others  again  are  plain, 
honest,  and  upright,  like  the  broad-faced  sunflower  and  the  holly- 
hock. We  find  ourselves  speaking  of  them  as  laughing,  as  gay 
and  coquettish,  as  nodding  and  dancing.  No  man  of  sensibility 
ever  spoke  of  a  flower  as  he  would  of  a  fungus,  a  pebble,  or  a 
sponge.  Indeed,  they  are  more  life-like  than  many  animals. 
We  commune  with  flowers ;  we  go  to  them  if  we  are  sad  or  glad : 
but  a  toad,  a  worm,  an  insect,  we  repel,  as  if  real  life  was  not 
half  so  real  as  imaginary  life.  What  a  pity  flowers  can  utter  no 
sound !  A  singing  rose,  a  whispering  violet,  a  murmuring  honey- 
suckle,—  oU,  what  a  rare  and  exquisite  miracle  would  these  be ! 

When  we  hear  melodious  sounds,  —  the  wind  among  trees;  the 
noise  of  a  brook  falling  down  into  a  deep,  leaf-covered  cavity; 
birds'  notes,  especially  at  night;  children's  voices  as  you  ride 
into  a  village  at  dusk,  far  from  your  long-absent  home,  and 


112  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

quite  homesick;  or  a  flute  heard  from  out  of  a  forest,  —  a  silver 
sound  rising  up  among  silver-lit  leaves  into  the  moon-lighted 
air;  or  the  low  conversations  of  persons  whom  you  love,  that  sit 
at  the  fire  in  the  room  where  you  are  convalescing,  —  when  we 
think  of  these  things,  we  are  apt  to  imagine  that  nothing  is  per- 
fect that  has  not  the  gift  of  sound.  But  we  change  our  mind 
when  we  dwell  lovingly  among  flowers ;  for  they  are  always 
silent.  Sound  is  never  associated  with  them.  They  speak  to 
you ;  but  it  is  as  the  eye  speaks,  — -  by  vibrations  of  light,  and  not 
of  air. 

It  is  with  flowers  as  with  friends,  —  many  may  be  loved,  but 
few  much  loved.  Wild  honeysuckles  in  the  wood,  laurel-bushes 
in  the  very  regality  of  bloom,  are  very  beautiful  to  you;  but 
they  are  color  and  form  only.  They  seem  strangers  to  you. 
You  have  no  memories  reposed  in  them.  They  bring  back  noth- 
ing from  time.  They  point  to  nothing  in  the  future.  But  a 
wild-brier  starts  a  genial  feeling  :  it  is  the  country  cousin  of  the 
rose;  and  that  has  always  been  your  pet.  You  have  nursed  it 
and  defended  it ;  you  have  had  it  for  companionship  as  you  wrote  ; 
it  has  stood  by  your  pillow  while  sick  ;  it  has  brought  remem- 
brance to  you,  and  conveyed  your  kindest  feelings  to  others. 
You  remember  it  as  a  mother's  favorite ;  it  speaks  to  you  of  your 
own  childhood,  — •  that  white  rosebush  that  snowed  in  the  corner 
by  the  door;  that  generous  bush  that  blushed  red  in  the  garden 
with  a  thousand  flowers,  whose  gorgeousness  was  among  the  first 
things  that  drew  your  childish  eye,  an  1  which  always  comes  up 
before  you  when  you  speak  of  childhood.  You  remember,  too, 
that  your  mother  loved  roses.  As  you  walked  to  church,  she 
plucked  off  a  bud  and  gave  you,  which  you  carried  because  you 
were  proud  to  do  as  she  did.  You  remember  how,  in  the  listen- 
ing hour  of  sermon,  her  roses  fell  neglected  on  her  lap,  and  how 
you  slyly  drew  one  and  another  of  them ;  and  how,  when  she 
came  to,  she  looked  for  them  under  her  handkerchief  and  on  the 
floor,  until,  spying  the  ill-repressed  glee  of  your  face,  she  smiled 
such  a  look  of  love  upon  you  as  made  a  rose  for  ever  after  seem 
to  you  as  if  it  smiled  a  mother's  smile.  And  so  a  wild  rose,  a 
prairie-rose,  or  a  sweet-brier,  that  at  evening  fills  the  air  with 
o<k>r  (a  floral  nightingale,  whose  song  is  perfume),  greets  you  as  a 
dear  and  intimate  friend.  You  almost  wish  to  get  out  as  you 
travel,  and  inquire  after  their  health,  and  ask  if  they  wish  to 
send  any  messages  by  you  to  their  town  friends. 

But  no  flower  can  be  so  strange  or  so  new  that  a  friendliness 
does  not  spring  up  at  once  between  3*011.  You  gather  them  up 
along  your  rambles,  and  sit  down  to  make  their  acquaintance  on 
some  shaded  bank,  with  your  feet  over  the  brook,  where  your 
shoes  feed  their  vanity  as  in  a  mirror.  You  assort  them ;  you 


HENRY    WARD   BEECHER.  113 

question  their  graces  ;  you  enjoy  their  odor ;  you  range  them  on 
the  grass  in  a  row,  and  look  from  one  to  another;  you  gather 
them  up,  and  study  a  tit  gradation  of  colors,  and  search  for  new 
specimens  to  till  the  degrees  between  too  violent  extremes.  All 
the  while,  and  it  is  a  long  while,  if  the  day  be  gracious  and  lei- 
sure ample,  various  suggestions  and  analogies  of  life  are  darting 
in  and  out  of  your  mind.  This  flower  is  like  some  friend  ;  an- 
other reminds  you  of  mignonnette,  and  mignonnette  always  ma^es 
you  think  of  such  a  garden  and  mansion  where  it  enacted  spine 
memorable  part ;  and  that  flower  conveys  some  strange  and  unexr- 
pected  resemblance  to  certain  events  of  society ;  this  one  is  a  bold 
soldier ;  that  one  is  a  sweet  lady  dear ;  the  white-flowering  blood- 
root,  trooping  up  by  the  side  of  a  decaying  log,  recalls  to  your 
fancy  a  band  of  white-bannered  knights :  and  so  your  pleased  at- 
tention strays  through  a  thousand  vagaries  of  fancy  or  memory 
or  vaticinating  hope. 

Yet  these  are  not  home-flowers.  You  did  not  plant  them, 
You  have  not  screened  them.  You  have  not  watched  their 
growth,  plucked  away  voracious  worms  or  nibbling  bugs  5  you 
have  not  seen  them  in  the  same  places  year  after  year,  —  children 
of  your  care  and  love.  Around  such  there  is  an  artificial  life,  an 
associational  beauty,  a  fragrance  and  grace  of  the  affections,  that 
no  wild-flowers  can  have. 

It  is  a  matter  of  gratitude  that  this  finest  gift  of  Providence  is 
the  most  profusely  given.  Flowers  can  not  be  monopolized.  The 
poor  can  have  them  as  much  as  the  rich.  It  does  not  require 
such  an  education  to  love  and  appreciate  them  as  it  would  to  ad- 
mire a  picture  of  Turner's  or  a  statue  of  Thorwaldsen's.  And 
as  they  are  messengers  of  affection,  tokens  of  remembrance,  and 
presents  of  beauty,  of  universal  acceptance,  it  is  pleasant  to  think 
that  all  men  recognize  a  brief  brotherhood  in  them.  It  is  not 
impertinent  to  offer  flowers  to  a  stranger.  The  poorest  child  can 
proffer  them  to  the  richest.  A  hundred  persons  turned  together 
into  a  meadow  full  of  flowers  would  be  drawn  together  in  a  tran- 
sient brotherhood. 

It  is  affecting  to  see  how  serviceable  flowers  often  are  to  the 
necessities  of  the  poor.  If  they  bring  their  little  floral  gift  to  you, 
it  can  not  but  touch  your  heart  to  think  that  their  grateful  affec- 
tion longed  to  express  itself  as  much  as  yours.  You  have  books 
or  gems  or  services  that  you  can  render  as  you  will.  The  poor 
can  give  but  little  and  do  but  little.  Were  it  not  for  flowers, 
they  would  be  shut  out  from  those  exquisite  pleasures  which 
spring  from  such  gifts.  I  never  take  one  from  a  child  or  from 
the  poor  that  I  do  not  thank  God  in  their  behalf  for  flowers. 

And  then,  when  Death  enters  a  poor  man's  house !  It  may  be, 
the  child  was  the  only  creature  that  loved  the  unbefr-jended 


114  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

father, — really  loved  him,  loved  him  utterly.     Or  it  maybe  it 

is  mi  only  son,  and  his  mother  a  widow,  who,  in  all  his  sickness, 
felt  the  limitation  of  her  poverty  fon  her  darling's  sake  as  she 
never  had  for  her  own;  and  did  what  she  could,  but  not  what  she 
would  had  there  been  wealth.  The  coffin  is  pine.  The  under- 
taker sold  it  with  a  jerk  of  indifference  and  haste,  lest  he  should 
lose  the  selling  of  a  rosewood  coffin  trimmed  with  splendid  silver 
screws.  The  room  is  small.  The  attendant  neighbors  are  few. 
The  shroud  is  coarse.  Oh !  the  darling  child  was  fit  for  whatever 
was  most  excellent ;  and  the  heart  aches  to  do  for  him  whatever 
could  be  done  that  should  speak  love.  It  takes  money  for  fine 
linen,  money  for  costly  sepulture  ;  but  flowers,  thank  God.  the 
poorest  may  have :  so  put  white  buds  in  the  hair,  and  honey- 
dew  and  rnignorinette  and  half-blown  roses  on  the  breast.  If  it 
be  spring,  a  few  white  violets  will  do  (and  there  is  not  a  month 
till  November  that  will  not  give  you  something)  :  but  if  it  is 
winter,  and  you  have  no  single  pot  of  roses,  then  I  fear  your  dar- 
ling must  be  buried  without  a  flower;  for  flowers  cost  money  in 
the  winter. 

And  then,  if  you  can  not  give  a  stone  to  mark  his  burial-place, 
a  rose  may  stand  there;  and  from  it  you  may  every  spring 
pluck  a  bud  for  your  bosom,  as  the  child  was  broken  off  from  you. 
And,  if  it  brings  tears  for  the  past,  you  will  not  see  the  flowers 
fade  and  come  again,  and  fade  and  come  again,  year  by  year,  and 
not  learn  a  lesson  of  the  resurrection,  when  that  which  perished 
here  shall  revive  again,  never  more  to  droop  or  to  die. 


NOR  WOOD. 

STORIES     FOR     CHILDREN. 

IF  a  day  in  a  country  farmhouse  is  joyous  to  town  people, 
not  less  exhilarating  to  country  friends  is  a  day  in  a  town  man- 
sion. Alice,  in  her  silent  and  gentle  way,  seemed  to  absorb  hap- 
piness from  the  very  air.  That  sensitive  timidity  which  was 
like  an  outer  garment  to  her  really  courageous  and  resolute 
nature  suffered  no  embarrassment  in  Dr.  Went  worth's  family. 
Agate  BisselFs  plain  speech  and  direct  manner  never  left  an 
unfavorable  impression.  There  was  a  flow  of  honesty  and  undis- 
guised kindness  which  children  instinctively  recognized.  Her 
whole  conduct  was  indulgent,  though  her  language  seemed  moni- 
torial and  even  magisterial. 

Mrs.  Went  worth  was  one  whose  soul  shone  through  her  face, 
and  gave  it  an  almost  transparent  look.  She  lived  under  the 
influence  of  her  best  faculties  :  therefore  her  manner  and  influence 


HENRY    WARD   BEECHER.  115 

seemed  to  excite  the  best  faculties  of  those  who  met  her.  Very 
clear-headed  was  she,  very  cheerful,  and  very  kind.  Your  first 
glance  upon  her  face  would  lead  you  to  say,  "  Penetration  is  her 
ruling  trait."  Your  second  glance  would  convince  you  that  sym- 
pathy was  more  strongly  indicated.  If  she  spoke,  you  would 
conclude  that  no  one  feeling  ruled,  but  many,  and  all  of  them 
good.  At  first,  you  would  think,  "  This  woman  sees  through  all 
films,  and  can  not  be  deceived ; "  next  you  would  feel,  "  There  is 
no  need  of  hiding  any  thing  from  her :  she  is  to  be  trusted." 

As  for  Dr.  Wentworfch,  nobody  saw  through  him,  and  every- 
body trusted  him.  There  was  no  dormant  faculty  in  him:  he 
was  alive  all  around  his  soul.  There  were  no  arctic  and  antarc- 
tic zones.  The  whole  globe  of  his  nature  was  tropical,  and  J^et 
temperate. 

His  moods  ran  through  the  whole  scale  of  faculties.  -  He  was 
various  as  the  separate  days.  He  carried  the  germs  of  every 
thing  which  bore  fruit  in  other  men's  characters,  and  so  could 
put  himself  into  sympathy  with  every  kind  of  man.  A  great 
talker  at  times;  yet,  even  when  most  frank,  he  was  more  silent 
than  talkative,  and  left  the  impression  of  one  who  had  only 
blown  the  foam  off  from  unfathomable  thoughts. 

What  a  place  was  his  house  for  children!  —  an  old  mansion, 
quaint  and  voluminous,  stored  full  of  curious  knick-knacks,  more 
carious  books,  and  most  curious  engravings.  Yet  the  interior  of 
the  house  was  even  less  attractive  to  children  than  the  grounds 
about  it.  Such  dainty  nooks  there  were,  such  pet  mazes  among 
the  evergreens,  such  sweeps  of  flowers  and  tangles  of  blossoming 
vines,  such  rows  of  fruit-laden  trees,  such  discoveries  to  be  made 
here  and  there  of  new  garden-plats  of  before-unseen  beds  of 
flowers,  such  wildernesses  of  morning-glories,  and  tangles  of 
honeysuckles  running  over  rocks,  or  matted  in  the  grass,  that, 
once  out,  the  children  never  wanted  to  go  in ;  and,  once  in,  they 
could  hardly  persuade  themselves  to  go  out. 

When  the  afternoon  was  turning  in  the  west,  and  the  sunlight 
began  to  shoot  golden  beams  under  the  branches  of  the  trees,  and 
the  shadows  stretched  themselves  every  moment  larger  and  larger 
along  the  ground,  as  if  the  time  were  near  for  them  to  fall  asleep, 
Dr.  Wentworth  came  in  from  his  patients,  and  joined  the  chil- 
dren. Then  there  was  racing  and  frolicking  !  Then  you  might 
have  seen  three  children  indeed  ! 

But,  after  a  time,  Rose  began  to  persuade  her  father  to  tell 
some  stories.  Story-hunger  in  children  is  even  more  urgent 
than  bread-hunger.  And  so,  at  length,  he  suffered  himself  to  be 
led  captive  to  his  favorite  tree,  where  scores  of  times  he  had  been 
wont  to  weave  fables  and  parables  for  Rose,  —  fictions  that  under 
every  form  whatsoever  still  tended  in  his  child's  imagination  to 


116  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

bring  Nature  home  to  her  as  God's  wonderful  revelation,  vital 
with  sentiment  and  divine  truth.  Sitting  upon  the  ground,  with 
one  child  on  either  side  leaning  upon  >his  knees  and  looking  up 
into  his  face,  he  began  :  — 

THE   ANXIOUS    LEAF. 

"  Once  upon  a  time,  a  little  leaf  was  heard  to  sigh  and  cry,  as 
leaves  often  do  when  a  gentle  wind  is  about.  And  the  twig  said, 
'  What  is  the  matter,  little  leaf?'  And  the  leaf  said,  'The  wind 
just  told  me  that  one  day  it  would  pull  rne  off,  and  throw  me 
do\yn  to  die  on  the  ground ! '  The  twig  told  it  to  the  branch  on 
which  it  grew,  and  the  branch  told  it  to  the  tree :  and,  when 
the  tree  heard  it,  it  rustled  all  over,  and  sent  back  word  to  the 
leaf,  ' Do  not  be  afraid;  hold  on  tightly,  and  you  shall  not  go  till 
you  want  to.'  And  so  the  leaf  stopped  sighing,  but  went  on 
nestling  and  singing.  Every  time  the  tree  shook  itself,  and 
stirred  up  all  its  leaves,  the  branches  shook  themselves,  and  the 
little  twig  shook  itself,  ajicl  the  little  leaf  danced  up  and  down 
merrily  as  if  nothing  could  ever  pull  it  off.  And  so  it  grew  all 
summer  long  till  October.  And,  when  the  bright  days  of  autumn 
came,  the  little  leaf  saw  all  the  leaves  around  becoming  very 
beautiful.  Some  were  yellow,  and  some  scarlet,  and  some  striped 
with  both  colors.  Then  it  asked  the  tree  what  it  meant.  And 
the  tree  said,  'All  these  leaves  are  getting  ready  to  fly  away; 
and  they  have  put  on  these  beautiful  colors  because  of  joy.' 
Then  the  little  leaf  began  to  want  to  go,  and  grew  very  beautiful 
in  thinking  of  it,  and,  when  it  was  very  gay  in  color,  saw  that 
the  branches  of  the  tree  had  no  color  in  them  ;  and  so  the  leaf 
said,  '0  branches!  why  are  you  lead-color,  and  we  golden?'  — 
'We  must  keep  on  our  work-clothes,  for  our  life  is  not  done;  but 
your  clothes  are  for  holiday,  because  your  tasks  are  over.'  Just 
then,  a  little  puff  of  wind  came,  and  the  leaf  let  go  without 
thinking  of  it;  and  the  wind  took  it  up  and  turned  it  over  and 
over,  and  whirled  it  like  a  spark  of  fire  in  the  air  j  and  then  it  fell 
gently  down  under  the  edge  of  the  fence  among  hundreds  of 
leaves,  and  fell  into  a  dream,  and  never  waked  up  to  tell  what  it 
dreamed  about." 

How  charming  it  is  to  narrate  fables  to  children  !  How  dain- 
tily do  they  carry  on  the  conscious  dramatic  deception !  They 
know  that  if  the  question  were  once  got  in  upon  them,  "Are 
these  things  true?"  the  bubble  would  burst,  and  all  its  fine 
colors  would  disappear.  Children  are  unconscious  philosophers. 
They  refuse  to  pull  to  pieces  their  enjoyments  to  see  what  they 
are  made  of.  Rose  knew  as  well  as  her  father  that  leaves  never 


HENRY   WARD   BEECHER.  117 

talked  ;    yet  Rose  never  saw  a   leaf  without  feeling  that  there 
was  life  and  meaning  in  it.     Flowers  had  stories  in  them.     The 
natural  world  stole  in  upon  her  with  mute  messages;   and  the 
feelings  which  woke  in  her  bosom  she  attributed  to  Nature ;  and 
the  thoughts  which  started  she  deemed  a  revelation,  and  an  inter- 
pretation of  truths  that  lay  hidden  in  creation  waiting  for  her. 
What  is  one  story  ?  —  a  mere,  provocation  of  another. 
"  Do  tell  us  another,  father.     That  was  so  short !  " 
"  Yes,  doctor ;  do  tell  us  some   more,"  said  Alice.      And  then, 
coloring  a  little,  she  said,  "  Rose  can  have  them  every  day ;  but  I 
can  not,  — only  once  in  a  great  while." 

"  Alice,  you  must  make  your  father  tell  you  stories." 
"  He   does   sometimes ;    but    they    are    always   out   of   books, 
and  almost  always  Bible-stories;    and    I   know  them   by  heart 
already." 

After  Dr.  Wentworth  had  regaled  himself  enough  with  the 
children's  charming  arts  of  coaxing,  he  began  another  story  :  — 

THE    FAIRY   FLOWER. 

"Once  there  was  a  little  girl  whose  name  was  Clara.  She  had 
a  very  kind  heart ;  but  she  was  an  only  child,  and  had  been  petted 
so  much  that  she  was  like  to  become  very  selfish.  Too  late  her 
mother  lamented  that  she  had  indulged  her  so  much,  and  strove 
to  repair  the  mischief,  and  to  make  Clara  think  of  other  people's 
happiness,  and  not  solely  of  her  own.  On  some  days,  nothing 
could  be  more  charming  than  Clara's  ways.  She  was  gentle  and 
obliging,  and  sang  all  day  long,  and  made  every  one  who  came 
near  her  happy  by  her  agreeable  manners.  Then  everybod}r 
admired  her,  and  her  mother  and  aunt  were  sure  that  she  was 
cured  of  her  pettish  dispositions.  But,  the  very  next  day,  all 
her  charming  ways  were  exchanged.  She  carried  a  moody  face. 
She  was  no  longer  courteous ;  and  every  one  who  came  near  her 
felt  the  chill  of  her  manner,  as  if  an  east  wind  were  blowing 
with  her  breath.  One  summer  night,  after  such  a  miserable 
day,  Clara  went  to  her  room.  The  moon  was  at  its  full,  and 
poured  through  the  window  in  such  floods  that  she  needed  no 
other  light.  Clara  sat  down  by  the  window  very  unhappy.  She 
thought  over  the  day,  and  wondered  at  herself,  and  tried  to 
imagine  why  it  was  that  on  some  days  she  was  so  happy,  and  on 
others  so  wretched.  As  she  mused,  she  laid  her  head  back  on  the 
easy-chair.  No  sooner  had  she  shut  her  eyes  than  a  strange 
thing  happened.  An  old  man,  very  feeble,  came  in  ;  and  in  his 
basket,  which- he  seemed  hardly  able  to  bear,  was  a  handful  of 
flowers  and  two  great  stones.  He  came  to  Clara,  and  said,  'My 
daughter,  will  you  help  me.?  for  I  am  too  old  to  carry  this  load. 


118  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

Please  make  it  lighter.'  Then  Clara  looked  at  him  with  pout- 
ing, and  said,  '  Go  away ! '  Then  he  said,  '  I  am  poor  and  suffer- 
ing. Will  you  not  lighten  my  load  ? '  .*  Then  Clara  condescended 
to  take  the  flowers  out  of  his  basket.  They  were  very  beautiful ; 
and  she  laid  them  in  her  lap. 

"  The  old  man  said,  — 

"'  My  daughter,  you  have  not  lightened  my  basket :  you  have 
only  taken  the  pleasant  things  out  of  it,  and  left  the  heavy, 
heavy  stones.  Oh,  please  lift  one  of  them  out  of  the  basket ! ' 

••  Then  Clara  was  angry,  and  said,  — 

"  ( No  :  get  you  gone  !     I  will  not  touch  those  dirty  stones.' 

"No  sooner  had  she  said  this  than  the  old  man  began  to 
change  before  her,  and  became  so  bright  and  white,  that  he 
looked  like  a  column  of  crystal.  Then  he  took  one  of  the  stones 
and  cast  it  out  of  the  window,  and  it  flew  and  flew  and  flew,  and 
fell  down  on  the  eastern  side  of  a  grove,  where  the  sun  shone 
first  every  morning ;  and  close  by  it  ran  a  brook  that  laughed  and 
loitered  and  sported  all  day  and  all  night,  and  played  with  every 
thing  that  would  come  to  it. 

"  And  then  the  crystal  old  man  took  the  flowers  out  of  her  lap, 
and  they  were  wet  with  moisture ;  and  he  shook  them  over  her 
head,  and  said,  — 

" '  Change  to  a  flower !  Go  and  stand  by  the  stone  till  your 
shadow  shall  be  marked  upon  the  rock.' 

"  In  a  second,  Clara  was  growing  by  the  side  of  a  wide,  flat 
stone ;  and  the  moon  cast  the  shadow  of  a  beautiful  flower,  with 
long  and  slender  stem,  upon  the  rock.  She  was  very  wretched, 
and  the  dew  came  and  comforted  her ;  and  in  the  morning  she 
could  not  help  looking  at  herself  in  the  brook  that  came  close  up 
to  the  stone,  and  she  saw  how  beautiful  she  was.  All  day  her 
shadow  fell  on  the  rock ;  and,  when  the  sun  went  away,  the  shadow 
went  away  too.  All  night  she  threw  a  pale  shadow  on  the  rock ; 
and  in  the  morning,  when  the  moon  went  away,  the  shadow  went 
away  too.  And  the  rock  lay  still  all  day  and  all  night,  and  did 
not  care  for  the  flower,  nor  feel  its  shadow.  And  she  longed  and 
longed  and  longed  ;  but  what  could  a  tender  flower  do  with  a  hard 
rock  ?  And  the  flower  asked  the  brook,  f  Can  you  help  me  ? ' 
And  the  brook  laughed  out  louder  than  it  was  laughing  before, 
and  said,  '  Ask  the  birds.'  And  so  she  asked  a  bobolink ;  and  he 
came  frisking  to  her  with  a  wonderful  speech,  in  Latin,  Greek, 
and  Syriac,  with  some  words  from  the  great  language  that  was 
before  all  other  languages.  And  he  alit  upon  the  flower,  and 
teetered  up  and  down  till  she  thought  her  back  would,  break; 
but  nothing  could  she  learn  how  to  make  her  shadow  stay  upon 
the  rock. 

"Then  she  asked  a  spider ;  and  he  spun  a  web  from  her  bright 


HENRY   WARD   BEECHER.  119 

blossoms,  and  fastened  it  to  the  rock,  and  bent  her  over,  and  tied 
her  up,  till  she  feared  she  should  never  get  loose.  But  all  his 
nice  lilms  did  her  no  good,  and  her  shadow  would  not  stay  upon 
the  rock. 

"  Then  she  asked  the  wind  to  help  her.  And  the  wind  blew 
away  the  spiders  web,  and  blew  so  hard,  that  the  flower  lay  its 
whole  length  upon  the  rock ;  but  when  the  wind  left  her,  and  she 
rose  up,  there  was  no  shadow  there ! 

"  And  she  said,  '  What  is  beauty  worth  if  it  grows  by  the  side 
of  a  stone  that  does  not  feel  it  nor  care  for  it  ? ' 

"  Then  she  asked  the  dew  to  help  her.  And  the  dew  said, 
1  How  can  I  help  you  ?  I  live  contentedly  in  darkness.  I  put  on 
my  beauty  only  to  please  other  things.  I  let  the  sun  come 
through  my  drops,  though  I  know  it  will  consume  me.' 

"  The  flower  said,  ( I  wish  I  were  dew.  I  would  do  some  good. 
Now  my  beauty  does  me  no  good,  and  I  am  wasting  it  every  day 
upon  a  rock.'  When  the  flower  breathed  this  benevolent  wish, 
there  were  flutters  and  whispers  all  around;  but  the  flower 
thought  it  was  only  the  brook. 

"  The  next  day  came  that  way  a  beautiful  girl.  She  was 
gathering  ferns  and  mosses  and  flowers.  Whenever  she  saw  a 
tuft  of  moss,  she  said,  '  Please,  dear  moss,  may  I  take  you  ? ' 
And,  when  she  saw  a  beautiful  branch  with  scarlet  leaves,  she 
said,  f  Dear  bush,  may  I  take  these  leaves  ? '  And  then  she  saw 
a  beautiful  columbine  growing  by  the  edge  of  a  rock ;  and  she 
said,  '  0  sweet  columbine !  may  I  pluck  you  ? '  And  the  flower 
said,  'Please,  I  must  not  go  till  my  shadow  is  fastened  on  the 
rock/  Then  the  young  lady  took  from  her  case  a  pencil,  and  in  a 
moment  traced  the  shadow  of  the  columbine  upon  the  rock ;  and, 
when  she  had  done,  she  reached  her  hand  and  took  the  stem  low 
down,  and  broke  it  off.  Then  Clara  sprang  up  from  her  chair  by 
the  window,  and  there  stood  her  mother,  saying,  — 

" '  My  dear  daughter,  you  should  not  fall  asleep  by  an  open 
window,  —  not  even  in  summer,  my  child.  How  damp  you  are! 
Come,  hasten  to  bed.' 

"  It  was  many  days  before  Clara  could  persuade  herself  that 
she  had  only  dreamed.  It  was  many  months  before  she  told  the 
dream  to  her  mother;  and,  when  she  did,  her  mother  said, — 

"  f  Ah,  Clara  !  would  that  all  girls  might  dream,  if  only  it  made 
them  as  good  as  your  dream  has  made  you  ! ' ' 

The  doctor  seemed  quite  interested  in  his  own  story,  and  sat 
silent  for  a  moment,  that  the  good  impression  might  settle  in  the 
girls'  minds.  He  was  awakened  to  attention  by  some  little  flutter, 
and  saw  Hose  nodding  in  a  gravely  humorous  way  to  Alice,  as  if 
she  meant  to  say,  — 

"  I  hope,  Alice,  that  you  will  take  this  lesson  to  heart,  and  never 
be  naughty  again." 


1-0  EXGLFSH   LITERATURE. 

"  Ah,  rogue  Rose  !  "  said  the  doctor.  "  Is  that  the  wa}T  you  pay 
me  for  my  trouble  ?  You  shall  "  — 

Rose,  without  waiting  for  the  whole  sentence,  darted  off:  and 
in  an  instant  the  doctor  was  in  full  chase ;  while  Alice,  hesitant, 
followed  in  the  distance,  half  laughing,  and  quite  uneasy  lest 
some  harm  should  come  to  Rose.  Harm  did  come.  She  was, 
after  nimble  turns  and  skillful  evasions,  so  amused  at  her  father's 
mishap  in  rushing  upon  a  sweet-brier  when  he  thought  to  have 
seized  her,  that  her  strength  dissolved  in  laughter.  She  was 
caught,  and  her  hands  tied  with  honeysuckle-vines,  and  her  neck 
was  bound  with  flowers;  and  so  she  was  carried  away  captive, 
smothered  with  sweets,  to  be  punished  under  the  great  tree. 
There  her  father  pronounced  the  sentence,  —  that,  for  irreverence 
and  rebellion,  she  should  be  doomed  to  hear  another  story,  which 
he  called 

COMING    AND    GOING. 

"Once  came  to  our  fields  a  pair  of  birds  that  had  never  built  a 
nest  nor  seen  a  winter.  Oh,  how  beautiful  was  every  thing !  The 
fields  were  full  of  flowers,  and  the  grass  was  growing  tall,  and  the 
bees  were  humming  everywhere.  Then  one  of  the  birds  fell  to 
singing ;  and  the  other  bird  said,  '  Who  told  you  to  sing  ? '  And  he 
answered)  '  The  flowers  told  me,  and  the  bees  told  me,  and  the 
winds  and  leaves  told  me,  and  the  blue  sky  told  me,  and  you  told 
me  to  sing.'  Then  his  mate  answered,  '  When  did  I  tell  you  to 
sing?'  And  he  said,  'Every  time  you  brought  in  tender  grass 
for  the  nest,  and  every  time  your  soft  wings  fluttered  off  again  for 
hair  and  feathers  to  line  the  nest.'  Then  his  mate  said,  '  What 
are  you  singing  about?'  And  he  answered,  'I  am  singing 
about  every  thing  and  nothing.  It  is  because  I  am  so  happy 
that  I  sing.' 

"  By  and  by.  five  little  speckled  eggs  were  in  the  nest ;  and  his 
mate  said)  *  Is  there  any  thing  in  all  the  world  as  pretty  as  my 
eggs  ?'  Then  they  both  looked  down  on  some  people  that  were 
passing  by,  and  pitied  them  because  they  were  not  birds,  and  had 
no  nests  with  eggs  in  them.  Then  the  father-bird  sang  a  melan- 
choly song  because  he  pitied  folks  that  had  no  nests,  but  had  to 
live  in  houses. 

"In  a  week  or  two,  one  day,  when  the  father-bird  came  home, 
the  mother-bird  said,  'Oh!  what  do  you  think  has  happened?'  — 
'  What  ?  '  — - '  One  of  my  eggs  has  been  peeping  and  moving  ! ' 
Pretty  soon  another  egg  moved  under  her  feathers,  and  then 
another  and  another,  till  five  little  birds  were  born. 

••  Now  the  father-bird  sung  louder  and  louder  than  ever.  The 
mother-bird,  too,  wanted  to  sing ;  but  she  had  no  time,  and  so  she 
turned  her  song  into  work.  So  hungry  were  these  little  birds, 


HENRY    WARD   BEECHER.  121 

that  it  kept  both  parents  busy  feeding  them.  Away  each  one 
flew.  The  moment  the  little  birds  heard  their  wings  fluttering 
again  among  the  leaves,  five  yellow  mouths  flew  open  so  wide,  that 
nothing  could  be  seen  but  five  yellow  mouths. 

"'Can  anybody  be  happier?'  said  the  father-bird  to  the 
mother-bird.  (  We  will  live  in  this  tree  always ;  for  there  is  no 
sorrow  here.  It  is  a  tree  that  always  bears  joy.' 

"  The  very  next  day,  one  of  the  birds  dropped  out  of  the  nest, 
and  a  cat  ate  it  up  in  a  minute,  and  only  four  remained ;  and  the 
parent-birds  were  very  sad,  and  there  was  no  song  all  that  day  nor 
the  next.  Soon  the  little  birds  were  big  enough  to  fly ;  and  great 
was  their  parents'  joy  to  see  them  leave  the  nest,  and  sit  crumpled 
up  upon  the  branches.  There  was  then  a  great  time.  One  would 
have  thought  the  two  old  birds  were  two  French  dancing-masters, 
talking  and  chattering,  and  scolding  the  little  birds  to  make 
them  go  alone.  The  first  bird  that  tried  flew  from  one  branch 
to  another,  and  the  parents  praised  him ;  and  the  other  little  birds 
wondered  how  he  did  it.  And  he  was  so  vain  of  it,  that  he  tried 
again,  and  flew  and  flew,  and  couldn't  stop  flying,  till  he  fell  plump 
down  by  the  house-door ;  and  then  a  little  boy  caught  him  and 
carried  him  into  the  house,  and  only  three  birds  were  left.  Then 
the  old  birds  thought  that  the  sun  was  not  bright  as  it  used  to  be, 
and  they  did  not  sing  as  often. 

"  In  a  little  time,  the  other  birds  had  learned  to  use  their  wings ; 
and  they  flew  away  and  away,  and  found  their  own  food,  and  made 
their  own  beds;  and  their  parents  never  saw  them  any  more. 

"  Then  the  old  birds  sat  silent,  and  looked  at  each  other  a  long 
while. 

"  At  last,  the  wife-bird  said,  — 

"  <  Why  don't  you  sing  ?  ' 

"  And  he  answered,  — 

<(  ( 1  can't  sing  :  I  can  only  think  and  think.7 

"  '  What  are  you  thinking  of  ?  ' 

"'lam  thinking  how  every  thing  changes.  The  leaves  are 
falling  down  from  off  this  tree,  and  soon  there  will  be  no  roof 
over  our  heads ;  the  flowers  are  all  gone,  or  going ;  last  night 
there  was  a  frost;  almost  all  the  birds  are  flown  away,  and  I  am 
very  uneasy.  Something  calls  me,  and  I  feel  restless  as  if  I  would 
fly  far  away/ 

"  '  Let  us  fly  away  together  ! 7 

"  Then  they  rose  silently ;  and,  lifting  themselves  far  up  in  the 
air,  they  looked  to  the  north  :  far  away  they  saw  the  snow 
coming.  They  looked  to  the  south :  there  they  saw  green 
leaves.  All  day  they  flew,  and  all  night  they  flew  and  flew,  till 
they  found  a  land  where  there  was  no  winter;  where  there  was 
summer  all  the  time;  where  flowers  always  blossom,  and  birds 
always  sing. 


122  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

"  But  the  birds  that  staid  behind  found  the  days  shorter,  the 
nights  longer,  and  the  weather  colder.  Many  of  them  died  of 
cold  ;  others  crept  into  crevices  and  holes,  and  lay  torpid.  Then 
it  was  plain  that  it  was  better  to  go  than  to  stay." 


A   NEW-ENGLAND    SUNDAY. 

TIME  waits  for  no  man,  and  least  of  all  for  stor}*- writers.  Our 
readers  must  move  six  years  forward  at  a  step,  and  rest  for  one 
Sunday  in  Norwood,  where  traveling  on  Sunday  is  yet  against 
the  law. 

It  is  worth  all  the  inconveniences  arising  from  •  the  occasional 
over-action  of  New-England  sabbath  observance  to  obtain  the 
full  flavor  of  a  New-England  Sunday.  But,  for  this,  one  should 
have  been  born  there ;  should  have  found  Sunday  already  waiting 
for  him,  and  accepted  it  with  implicit  and  absolute  conviction,  as 
if  it  were  a  law  of  Nature,  in  the  same  way  that  night  and  day, 
summer  and  winter,  are  parts  of  Nature.  He  should  have  been 
brought  up  by  parents  who  had  done  the  same  thing,  as  tJiey 
were  by  parents  even  more  strict,  if  that  were  possible ;  until  not 
religious  persons  peculiarly,  but  everybody,  not  churches  alone, 
but  society  itself  and  all  its  population,  —  those  who  broke  it  as 
much  as  those  who  kept  it,  —  were  stained  through  with  the  color 
of  Sunday ;  nay,  until  Nature  had  adopted  it,  and  laid  its  com- 
mands on  all  birds  and  beasts,  on  the  sun  and  winds,  and  upon 
the  whole  atmosphere  :  so  that,  without  much  imagination,  one 
might  imagine  in  a  genuine  New-England  Sunday  of  the  Con- 
necticut-river-valley  stamp  that  God  was  still  on  that  day  resting 
from  all  the  work  which  he  had  created  and  made,  and  that  all 
his  work  rested  with  him. 

Over  all  the  town  rested  the  Lord's  peace.  The  saw  was  rip- 
ping away  yesterday  in  the  carpenter's  shop,  and  the  hammer  was 
noisy  enough .  to-day  there  is  not  a  sign  of  life  there.  The 
anvil  makes  no  music  to-day.  Tommy  Taft's  buckets  and  barrels 
give  forth  no  hollow,  thumping  sound.  The  mill  is  silent:  only 
the  brook  continues  noisy.  Listen  !  In  yonder  pine-woods,  what 
a  cawing  of  crows !  Like  an  echo  in  a  wood  still  more  remote, 
other  crows  are  answering.  But  even  a  crow's  throat  to-day  is 
musical.  Do  they  think,  because  they  have  black  coats  on,  that 
they  are  parsons,  and  have  a  right  to  play  pulpit  with  all  the  pine- 
trees  ?  Nay,  the  birds  will  not  have  any  such  monopoly  : 
they  are  all  singing,  and  singing  all  together;  and  no  one  cares 
whether  his  song  rushes  across  another's  or  not.  Larks  and 
robins,  blackbirds  and  orioles,  sparrows  and  bluebirds,  mocking 


HENRY   WARD  BEECHER.  123 

catbirds  and  wrens,  were  furrowing  the  air  with  such  mixtures  as 
no  other  day  but  Sunday,  when  all  artificial  and  human  sounds 
cease,  could  ever  hear.  Every  now  and  then,  a  bobolink  seemed 
impressed  with  the  duty  of  bringing  these  jangling  birds  into 
more  regularity ;  and,  like  a  country  singing-master,  he  flew  down 
the  ranks,  singing  all  the  parts  himself  in  snatches,  as  if  to  stim- 
ulate and  help  the  laggards.  In  vain.  Sunday  is  the  birds'  day, 
and  they  will  have  their  own  democratic  worship. 

There  was  no  sound  in  the  village  street.  Look  either  way,  not 
a  vehicle,  not  a  human  being.  The  smoke  rose  up  soberly  and 
quietly,  as  if  it  said,  "  It  is  Sunday."  The  leaves  on  the  great 
elms  hung  motionless,  glittering  in  dew,  as  if  they  too,  like  the 
people  who  dwelt  under  their  shadow,  were  waiting  for  the  bell  to 
ring  for  meeting.  Bees  sung  and  flew  as  usual ;  but  honey-bees 
have  a  Sunday  way  with  them  all  the  week,  and  could  scarcely 
change  for  the  better  on  the  seventh  day. 

But,  oh,  the  sun !  It  had  sent  before,  and  cleared  every  stain 
out  of  the  sky.  The  blue  heaven  was  not  dim  and  low  as  on 
secular  days,  but  curved  and  deep,  as  if  on  Sunday  it  shook  off 
all  encumbrance  which  during  the  week  had  lowered  and  flat- 
tened it,  and  sprang  back  to  the  arch  arid  symmetry  of  a  dome. 
All  ordinary  sounds  caught  the  spirit  of  the  day.  The  shutting 
of  a  door  sounded  twice  as  far  as  usual.  The  rattle  of  a  bucket 
in  a  neighbor's  yard,  no  longer  mixed  with  heterogeneous  noises, 
seemed  a  new  sound.  The  hens  went  silently  about,  and  roosters 
crowed  in  psalm-tunes.  And,  when  the  first  bell  rang,  Nature 
seemed  overjoyed  to  find  something  that  it  might  do  without 
breaking  Sunday,  and  rolled  the  sound  over  and  over,  and  pushed 
it  through  the  air,  and  raced  with  it  over  field  and  hill  twice  as 
far  as  on  week-days.  There  were  no  less  than  seven  steeples  in 
sight  from  the  belfry :  and  the  sexton  said,  "  On  still  Sundays 
I've  heard  the  bell,  at  one  time  and  another,  when  the  day  was 
fair,  and  the  air  moving  in  the  right  way,  from  every  one  of  them 
steeples ;  and  I  guess  likely  they've  all  heard  our'n." 

"  Come,  Rose,"  said  Agate  Bissell,  at  an  even  earlier  hour 
than  when  Rose  usually  awakened,  —  "  come,  Rose,  it  is  the  sab- 
bath. We  must  not  be  late  Sunday  morning  of  all  days  in  the 
week.  It  is  the  Lord's  day." 

There  was  little  preparation  required  for  the  day.  Saturday 
night,  in  some  parts  of  New  England,  was  considered  almost  as 
sacred  as  Sunday  itself.  After  sundown  on  Saturday  night,  no 
play,  and  no  work,  except  such  as  is  immediately  preparatory  to 
the  sabbath,  were  deemed  becoming  in  good  Christians.  The 
clothes  had  been  laid  out  the  night  before.  Nothing  was  forgot- 
ten. The  best  frock  was  ready;  the  hose  and  shoes  were  waiting.. 
Every  article  of  linen,  every  ruffle  and  ribbon,  were  selected  on 


124  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Saturday  night.  Every  one  in  the  house  walked  mildly ;  every 
one  spoke  in  a  low  tone:  yet  all  were  cheerful.  The  mother 
had  on  her  kindest  face,  and  nobody  laughed ;  but  everybody  made 
it  up  in  smiling.  The  nurse  smiled,  and  the  children  held  on  to 
keep  down  a  giggle  within  the  lawful  bounds  of  a  smile ;  and  the 
doctor  looked  rounder  and  calmer  than  ever ;  and  the  dog  flapped 
his  tail  on  the  floor  with  a  softened  sound,  as  if  he  had  fresh 
wrapped  it  in  hair  for  that  very  day.  Aunt  Toodie,,  the  cook  (so 
the  children  had  changed  Mrs.  Sarah  Good's  name),  was  blacker 
than  ever  and  shinier  than  ever,  and  the  coffee  better,  and  the 
cream  richer,  and  the  broiled  chickens  jucier  and  more  tender, 
and  the  biscuit  whiter,  and  the  corn-bread  more  brittle  and  sweet. 

When  the  good  doctor  read  the  Scriptures  at  family  prayer,  the 
infection  of  silence  had  subdued  every  thing  except  the  clock. 
Out  of  the  wide  hall  could  be  heard  in  the  stillness  the  old  clock, 
that  now  lifted  up  its  voice  with  unwonted  emphasis,  as  if,  unno- 
ticed through  the  bustling  week,  Sunday  was  its  vantage-ground 
to  proclaim  to  mortals  the  swift  flight  of  time;  and,  if  the  old 
pedant  performed  the  task  with  something  of  an  ostentatious  pre- 
cision, it  was  because  in  that  house  nothing  else  put  on  official 
airs,  and  the  clock  felt  the  responsibility  of  doing  it  for  the  whole 
mansion. 

And  now  came  mother  and  catechism ;  for  Mrs.  Wentworth  fol- 
lowed the  old  custom,  and  declared  that  no  child  of  hers  should 
grow  up  without  catechism.  Secretly,  the  doctor  was  quite  will- 
ing ;  though  openly  he  played  off  upon  the  practice  a  world  of 
good-natured  discouragement,  and  declared  that  there  should  be 
an  opposition  set  up,  —  a  catechism  of  nature,  with  natural  laws 
for  decrees,  and  seasons  for  Providence,  and  flowers  for  graces. 
The  younger  children  were  taught  in  simple  catechism :  but 
Rose,  having  reached  the  mature  age  of  twelve,  was  now  mani- 
festing her  power  over  the  Westminster  Shorter  Catechism  ;  and 
as  it  was  simply  an  achievement  of  memory,  and  not  of  the  un- 
derstanding, she  had  the  book  at  great  advantage,  and  soon  sub- 
dued every  question  and  answer  in  it.  As  much  as  possible,  the 
doctor  was  kept  aloof  on  such  occasions.  His  grave  questions 
were  not  to  edification ;  and  often  they  caused  Rose  to  stumble, 
and  brought  down  sorely  the  exultation  with  which  she  rolled 
forth,  "  They  that  are  effectually  called  do  in  this  life  partake  of 
justification,  adoption,  sanctification,  and  the  several  benefits 
which  in  this  life  do  either  accompany  or  flow  from  them." 

"  What  do  those  words  mean,  Rose  ?  " 

"Which  words,  pa?" 

"  Adoption,  sanctification,  and  justification  ?  " 

Rose  hesitated,  and  looked  at  her  mother  for  rescue. 

"  Doctor,  why  do  you  trouble  the  child  ?     Of  course,  she  don't 


HENRY   WARD   BEECHER.  125 

know  yet  all  the  meaning ;  but  that  will  come  to  her  when  she 
grows  older." 

"  You  make  a  nest  of  her  memory,  then,  and  put  words  there, 
like  eggs,  for  future  hatching  ?  " 

"  Yes,  that  is  it  exactly.  Birds  do  not  hatch  their  eggs  the 
minute  they  lay  them  :  they  wait." 

"Laying  eggs  at  twelve  to  be  hatched  at  twenty  is  subjecting 
them  to  some  risk,  is  it  not  ?  " 

"  It  might  be  so  with  eggs,  but  not  with  catechism.  That  will 
keep,  without  spoiling,  a  hundred  years." 

"  Because  it  is  so  dry  ?  " 

"  Because  it  is  so  good.  But  do,  dear  husband,  go  away,  and 
not  put  notions  in  the  children's  heads.  It's  hard  enough  al- 
ready to  get  them  through  their  tasks.  Here's  poor  Arthur, 
who  has  been  two  Sundays  on  one  question,  and  has  not  got  it 

yet." 

Arthur,  aforesaid,  was  sharp  and  bright  in  any  thing  addressed 
to  his  reason  :  but  he  had  no  verbal  memory,  and  he  was  there- 
fore wading  painfully  through  the  catechism  like  a  man  in  a 
deep,  muddy  road ;  with  this  difference,  that  the  man  carries  too 
much  clay  with  him,  while  nothing  stuck  to  poor  Arthur.  Great 
was  the  lad's  pride  and  exultation  on  a  former  occasion  when  his 
mother  advanced  him  from  the  Smaller  Catechism  to  the  dignity 
of  the  Westminster  Catechism.  He  could  hardly  wait  for  Sunday 
to  begin  his  conquests.  He  was  never  known  after  the  first  Sun- 
day to  show  any  further  impatience.  He  had  been  four  weeks  in 
reaching  the  fourth  question ;  and  two  weeks  already  had  he  lain 
before  that  luminous  answer,  beating  or  it  like  a  ship  too  deeply 
laden,  and  unable  to  cross  the  bar. 

"What  is  God,  Arthur?"  said  his  mother. 

"  G-od  is  —  is  a  —  God  is  —  and  God  —  God  is  a  "  — 

Having  got  safely  so  far,  the  mother  suggests  "  spirit ; "  at  which 
he  gasps  eagerly,  "  God  is  a  spirit." 

"  Infinite,"  says  the  mother. 

"  Infinite,"  says  Arthur. 

And  then  blushing,  and  twisting  in  his  chair,  he  seemed  unable 
to  extract  any  thing  more. 

"  Eternal,"  says  the  mother. 

"  Eternal,"  says  the  boy. 

"  Well,  go  on.     '  God  is  a  spirit,  infinite,  eternal : '  what  else  ?  " 

"  l  God  is  a  spirit,  eternal,  infinite  : '  what  else  ?  " 

"Nonsense  !  "  says  the  startled  mother. 

"Nonsense !"  goes  on  the  boy,  supposing  it  to  be  a  part  of  the 
regular  answer. 

"  Arthur,  stop  !     What  work  you  are  making ! " 

To  stop  was  the  very  exercise  in  catechism  at  which  he  was 


126  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

most  proficient ;  and  he  stopped  so  fully  and  firmly,  that  nothing 
more  could  be  got  out  of  him  or  into  him  during  the  exercise. 
But  his  sorrow  soon  fled;  for  the  second  bell  had  rung,  and  it  was 
just  time  to  walk;  and  "  everybody  was  going,"  the  servant  re- 
ported. The  doctor  had  been  called-  away ;  and  his  wife  and  the 
children  moved  down  the  yard, — Rose  with  demure  propriety, 
and  Arthur  and  his  eight-year-old  brother,  Charles,  with  less  piety 
manifest  in  deportment,  but,  on  the  whole,  with  decent  demeanor. 
The  beauty  of  the  day,  the  genial  season  of  the  year,  brought 
forth  every  one, — old  men  and  their  feebler  old  wives,  young  and 
hearty  men  and  their  plump  and  ruddy  companions.  Young 
men  and  girls  and  children,  thick  as  punctuation-points  in  He- 
brew text,  filled  the  street.  In  a  low  voice,  they  spoke  to  each 
other  in  single  sentences. 

"  A  fine  day.     There'll  be  a  good  congregation  out  to-day." 

"  Yes :  we  may  expect  a  house  full.  How  is  Widow  Cheney : 
have  you  heard  ?  " 

••'  Well,  not  much  better :  can't  hold  out  many  days.  It  will 
be  a  great  loss  to  the  children." 

"  Yes :  but  we  must  all  die ;  nobody  can  skip  his  turn.  Does 
she  still  talk  about  them  that's  gone  ?  " 

"  They  say  not.  I  believe  she's  sVink  into  a  quiet  way  ;  and  it 
looks  as  if  she  would  go  off  easy/' 

"Sunday  is  a  good  day  for  dying:  it's  about  the  only  journey 
that  speeds  well  on  this  day." 

There  was  something  striking  in  the  outflow  of  people  into  the 
street  that  till  now  had  seemed  utterly  deserted.  There  was  no 
fevered  hurry,  no  negligent  or  poorly-dressed  people.  Every 
family  came  in  groups,  old  folks  and  young  children;  and  every 
member  blossomed  forth  in  his  best  apparel,  like  a  rose-bush  in 
June.  Do  3*011  know  that  man  in  a  silk  hat  and  new  black 
coat?  Probably  it  is  some  stranger.  No:  it  is  the  carpenter, 
Mr.  Baggs,  who  was  racing  about  yesterday  with  his  sleeves 
rolled  up,  and  a  dust-and-business  look  in  his  face.  I  knew  you 
would  not  know  him.  Adams  Gardner,  the  blacksmith,  —  does 
he  not  look  every  inch  a  judge,  now  that  he  is  clean-washed, 
shaved,  and  dressed  ?  His  eyes  are  as  bright  as  the  sparks  that 
fly  from  his  anvil. 

Are  not  the  folks  proud  of  their  children  ?  See  what  groups 
of  them !  How  ruddy  and  plump  are  most !  Some  are  roguish, 
and  cut  clandestine  capers  at  every  chance.  Otiiers  seem  like 
wax  figures,  so  perfectly  proper  are  they.  Little  hands  go  slyly 
through  the  pickets  to  pluck  a  tempting  flower.  Other  hands 
carry  hymn-books  or  Bibles.  But  carry  what  they  may,  dressed 
as  each  parent  can  afford,  is  there  any  thing  the  sun  shines  upon 
more  beautiful  than  these  troops  of  Sunday  children? 


HENRY    WARD   BEECHER.  127 

The  old  bell  had  it  all  its  own  way  up  in  the  steeple.  It  was 
the  licensed  noise  of  the  day.  In  a  long  shed  behind  the  church 
stood  a  score  and  half-score  of  wagons  and  chaises  and  carryalls, 
—  the  horses  already  beginning  the  forenoon's  work  of  stamping, 
and  whisking  the  flies.  More  were  coming.  Hiram  Beers  had 
"  hitched  up,"  and  brought  two  loads  with  his  new  hack ;  and 
now,  having  secured  the  team,  he  stood  with  a  few  admiring 
young  fellows  about  him,  remarking  on  the  people  as  they 
came  up. 

"  There's  Trowbridge :  he'll  git  asleep  afore  the  first  prayer's 
over.  I  don't  b'lieve  he's  heerd  a  sermon  in  ten  years.  I've 
seen  him  sleep  standin'  up  in  singiii'. 

"  Here  comes  Deacon  Marble !  Smart  old  feller,  ain't  he  ? 
Wouldn't  think  it  jest  to  look  at  him !  Face  looks  like  an  ear  of 
last  summer's  sweet-corn,  —  all  dried  up ;  but  I  tell  ye  he's  got  the 
juice  in  him  yit !  Aunt  Polly's  gittin'  old,  ain't  she  ?  They  say 
she  can't  walk  half  the  time ;  lost  the  use  of  her  limbs :  but  it's 
all  gone  to  her  tongue.  That's  as  good  as  a  razor,  and  a  sight 
better'n  mine ;  for  it  never  needs  sharpenin'. 

"  Stand  away,  boys !  there's  'Biah  Cathcart.  Good  horses ; 
not  fast,  but  mighty  strong,  — just  like  the  owner." 

And  with  that  Hiram  touched  his  new  Sunday  hat  to  Mrs. 
Cathcart  and  Alice ;  and,  as  he  took  the  horses  by  the  bits,  he 
dropped  his  head,  and  gave  the  Cathcart  boys  a  look  of  such 
awful  solemnity,  all  except  one  eye,  that  they  lost  their  sobriety. 
Barton  alone  remained  sober  as  a  judge. 

"  Here  comes  ( Dot-and-Go-One '  and  his  wife.  They're  my 
kind  o'  Christians.  She  is  a  saint,  at  any  rate. 

"  How  is  it  with  you,  Tommy  Taft  ?  "' 

"  Fair  to  middlin',  thank'e.  Such  weather  would  make  a  hand- 
spike blossom,  Hiram  ?  " 

"  Don't  you  think  that's  a  leetle  strong,  Tommy,  for  Sunday  ? 
P'raps  you  mean  afore  it's  cut '?  " 

"  Sartin :  that's  what  I  mean.  But  you  mustn't  stop  me, 
Hiram.  Parson  Buell  '11  be  lookin'  for  me.  He  never  begins 
till  I  git  there." 

"  You  mean'  you  always  git  there  'fore  he  begins  ?  " 

Next  Hiram's  prying  eyes  saw  Mr.  Turfmould,  the  sexton  and 
undertaker,  who  seemed  to  be  in  a  pensive  meditation  upon  all 
the  dead  that  he  had  ever  buried.  He  looked  upon  men  in  a 
mild  and  pitying  manner,  as  if  he  forgave  them  for  being  in 
good  health.  You  could  not  help  feeling  that  he  gazed  upon 
you  with  a  professional  eye,  and  saw  just  how  you  would  look  in 
the  condition  which  was  to  him  the  most  interesting  period  of  a 
man's  earthly  state.  He  walked  with  a  soft  tread,  as  if  he  was 
always  at  a  funeral  j  and,  when  he  shook  your  hand,  his  left 


128  ENGLISH   LITEPwATURE. 

hand  half  followed  his  right,  as  if  he  were  about  beginning  to  lay 
you  out.  He  was  one  of  the  few  men  absorbed  by  his  business, 
and  who  unconsciously  measured  all  things  from  its  standpoint. 

"  Good-morning,  Mr.  Turfmould !  flow's  your  health  ?  How's 
business  with  you  ?  " 

"  Good,  the  Lord  be  praised !     I've  no  reason  to  complain." 

And  he  glided  silently  and  smoothly  into  the  church. 

"There  comes  Judge  Bacon,  white  and  ugly,"  said  the  critical 
Hiram.  "  I  wonder  what  he  comes  to  meetin'  for.  Lord  knows 
he  needs  it,  —  sly,  slippery  old  sinner !  Face's  as  white  as  a  lily  : 
his  heart's  as  black  as  a  chimney-flue  afore  it's  cleaned.  He'll 
get  his  flue  burned  out  if  he  don't  repent,  that's  certain.  He 
don't  believe  the  Bible  :  they  say  he  don't  believe  in  God. 
AVal,  I  guess  it's  pretty  even  between  7em.  Shouldn't  wonder 
if  God  didn't  believe  in  him  neither." 

Hiram's  prejudices  were  perhaps  a  little  too  severe.  The 
judge  was  very  selfish,  but  not  otherwise  bad.  He  would  not  do 
a  positively  bad  deed  if  he  could  help  it;  but  he  neglected  to 
do  a  great  many  good  ones  which  other  men  with  warm  hearts 
would  have  done.  But  he  made  up  in  manner  whatever  he 
lacked  in  feeling.  Dressed  with  unexceptionable  propriety,  his 
whole  bearing  was  dignified  and  kind.  Xo  man  in  the  village 
spoke  more  musically  and  gently ;  no  one  met  you  with  a  greater 
cordiality.  His  expressions  of  kind  wishes,  and  his  anxiety  to 
serve  you,  needed  only  a  single  instance  of  hearty  fulfillment  to 
make  Judge  Bacon  seem  sincerely  and  unusually  kind.  But 
those  who  had  most  to  do  with  him  found  that  he  was  cold  and 
selfish  at  heart,  inflexible  and  unfeeling  when  seeking  his  rights 
or  interests;  and  his  selfishness  was  the  more  ghastly  as  it 
clothed  itself  in  the  language  and  manners  of  gentle  good  will. 

"He  talks  to  you,"  said  Hiram,  "just  as  Black  Sain  lathers 
you.  A  kind  of  smooth  rubbing  goes  on,  and  you  feel  soft  and 
satisfied  with  yourself,  and  sort  o'  lean  to  him,  when  he  takes 
you  by  the  nose,  and  shaves  and  shaves  and  shaves ;  and  it's  so 
smooth,  that  you  don't  feel  the  razor.  But  I  tell  you,  when  you 
git  away,  you?  skin  smarts.  You've  been  shaved. 

"Here  come  the  Bages  and  the  Weekses,  and  a  whole  raft 
from  Hardscrabble,"  said  Hiram,  as  five  or  six  one-horse  wagons 
drove  up.  At  a  glance,  one  could  see  that  these  were  farmers 
who  lived  to  work.  They  were  spare  in  figure,  brown  in  com- 
plexion,—  every  thing  worn  off  but  bone  and  muscle, — like 
ships  with  iron  masts  and  wire  rigging.  They  drove  little  nub- 
bins of  horses,  tough  and  rough,  that  had  never  felt  a  blanket  in 
winter,  or  known  a  leisure  day  in  summer. 

"  Them  fellers,"  said  Hirara,  "  is  just  like  stones.  I  don't 
believe  there's  any  blood  or  innards  in  'em  inore'n  in  a  crowbar. 


HENRY   WARD    BEECHER.  129 

They  work  early,  and  work  all  day,  and  in  the  night,  and  keep 
workin' ;  and  never  seem  to  get  tired  except  Sunday,  when 
they've  nothin'  to  do.  You  know,  when  Fat  Porter  was  buried, 
they  couldn't  git  him  into  the  hearse,  and  had  to  carry  him  with 
poles  ;  and  Weeks  was  one  of  the  bearers.  And  they  had  a  pretty 
heavy  time  of  it,  nigh  about  three  hours,  what  with  liftin'  and 
fixin'  him  at  the  house,  and  fetchin'  him  to  the  church-door,  and 
then  carryin'  him  to  the  graveyard ;  and  Weeks  said  he  hadn't 
enjoyed  a  Sunday  so  much  he  couldn't  tell  when. 

"  '  Hiram/  sez  he,  '  I  should  like  Sunday  as  well  as  week-days 
if  I  could  work  on  it ;  but  I  git  awful  tired  doin'  nothin V 

"  They  say,"  said  Hiram,  "  that  they  never  do  exactly  die  up 
in  Hardscrabble.  They  work  up  and  up,  and  grow  thinner  and 
thinner  like  a  knife-blade,  till  they  git  so  small,  that  some  day 
they  accidentally  git  misplaced  or  dropped,  and  nobody  misses 
?em :  so  that  they  die  off  in  a  general  way  like  pins,  without  any 
one  of  'em  making  a  particular  fuss  about  it.  But  I  guess  that 
ain't  so,"  added  Hiram  with  a  grave  air,  as  if  fearing  that  he 
might  mislead  the  young  folks  about  him.  Then,  with  demure 
authority,  he  said,  "Boys,  go  in:  the  bell's  done  tollin',  and 
meetin's  goin'  to  begin.  Go  in,  and  don't  make  a  noise;  and  see 
you  tell  me  where  the  text  is.  I've  got  to  look  after  these 
horses,  or  they'll  get  mixed  up." 

This  remark  was  called  forth  by  a  squeal  and  a  rattle  and 
backing  of  wagons,  which  showed  that  mischief  was  already 
brewing. 

Having  got  the  people  all  safely  into  church,  Hiram  bestowed 
his  attention  on  the  horses.  The  whole  green  was  lined  with 
horses.  Every  hitch  ing-post,  and  the  railing  along  the  sidewalk 
and  at  the  fronts  of  the  stores,  were  closely  occupied. 

Seeing  Pete  leaning  on  Dr.  Wentworth's  gate,  Hiram  beck- 
oned him  over,  and  employed  him  in  his  general  tour  of  inspec- 
tion, as  a  bishop  might  employ  his  chaplain.  Here  the  reins 
had  been  pulled  under  a  horse's  feet ;  next  a  horse  had  got  his 
bridle  off;  another  had  backed  and  filled  till  the  wagon-wheels 
were  cramped;  and  at  each  position  Hiram  issued  orders  to 
Pete,  who  good-naturedly,  and  as  a  matter  indisputable,  did  as 
he  was  ordered.  If  Hiram  had  told  Pete  to  shoulder  one  of  the 
horses,  he  would  have  made  the  attempt. 

"  Look  here,  Pete,  if  that  ain't  a  shame,  then  there  ain't  no 
truth  in  the  ten  commandments  !  A  man  that'll  drive  a  horse  with 
a  sore  shoulder  like  that  is  a  brute.  Just  feel  how  hot  it  is  ! 
Pete,  you  got  a  bucket  of  water,  and  put  a  little  warm  in  it  to 
take  off  the  chill,  and  wash  that  off,  and  take  him  out  of  harness. 
I  swow  !  —  and  I  don't  know  but  I  ought  to  say  I  swear!  for 
it's  Sunday  work.  Anyhow,  if  Blakesley  don't  know  any  better 

9 


130  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

than  that,  he  ought  not  to  own  a  horse.  There  he  is  in  church 
a-hearin'  the  gospel,  and  feeliii'  all  over  as  comfortable  as  a  cruller; 
and  he's  left  his  horse  out  here  to  the  flies  and  the  sun,  with  a 
shoulder  that's  a  disgrace  to  Christianity.  But  that's  the  way  with 
us  pretty  much  all  round :  if  we  are  good  here,  we  are  bad  there. 
Folks's  good  and  bad  is  like  a  board-teeter,  —  if  one  end  goes  up, 
t'other  is  sure  to  go  down." 

*  It  was  curious  to  see  Pete's  superiority  to  Hiram  in  the  matter 
of  dogs.  In  several  wagons  lay  the  master's  dog;  and  Hiram  was 
not  permitted  to  approach  without  dispute :  but  there  was  not  a 
dog,  big  or  little,  cross  or  affectionate,  that  did  not  own  the  myste- 
rious power  that  Pete  had  over  animals.  Even  dogs  in  whom 
a  sound  conscience  was  bottomed  on  an  ugly  temper  practiced  a 
surly  submission  to  Pete's  familiarity. 

It  was  nearly  twelve  o'clock  when  Dr.  Wentworth,  returning 
from  his  round  of  visits,  found  Hiram  sitting  on  the  fence,  his 
labors  over,  and  waiting  for  Dr.  Buell  to  finish. 

"  Not  in  church,  Hiram  ?  I'm  afraid  you've  not  been  a  good 
boy." 

"  Don't  know.  Somebody  must  take  care  of  the  outside  as  well 
as  inside  of  church.  Dr.  Buell  rubs  down  the  folks,  and  I  rub  the 
horses :  he  sees  that  their  tacklin'  is  all  right  in  there,  and  I  do 
the  same  out  here.  Folks  and  animals  are  pretty  much  of  a  much- 
ness ;  and  they'll  bear  a  sight  of  takin'  care  of." 

"  Whose  nag  is  that  one,  Hiram,  —  the  roan  ?  " 

"  That's  Deacon  Marble's." 

"  Why,  he  seems  to  sweat  standing  still." 

Hiram's  e}^e  twinkled. 

"You  needn't  say  nothin',  doctor;  but  I  thought  it  a  pity  so 
many  horses  shouldn't  be  doin'  any  thing.  Of  course,  they  don't 
know  any  thing  about  Sunday  (it  ain't  like  workin'  a  creatur' 
that  reads  the  Bible)  :  so  I  just  slipped  over  to  Skiddy's  widder 
(she  ain't  been  out  doors  this  two  months,  and  I  knew  she  ought 
to  have  the  air),  and  I  gave  her  about  a  mile.  She  was  afraid 
'twould  be  breakin'  Sunday.  'Not  a  bit,'  says  I.  '  Didn't  the 
Lord  go  out  Sundays,  and  set  folks  off  with  their  beds  on  their 
backs  ?  and  didn't  he  pull  oxen  and  sheep  out  of  ditches,  and  do 
all  that  sort  of  thing  ? '  If  she'd  knew  that  I  took  the  deacon's 
team,  she'd  been  worse  afraid.  But  I  knew  the  deacon  would 
like  it ;  and  if  Polly  didn't,  so  much  the  better.  I  like  to  spite 
those  folks  that's  too  particular !  There,  doctor,  there's  the  last 
hymn." 

It  rose  upon  the  air,  softened  by  distance  and  the  inclosure  of 
the  building.  —  rose  and  fell  in  regular  movement.  Even  Hiram's 
tongue  ceased.  The  vireo  in  the  tops  of  the  elm  hushed  its  shrill 
snatches.  Again  the  hymn  rose,  and  this  time  fuller  and  louder, 


RALPH  WALDO   EMERSON.  131 

as  if  the  whole  congregation  had  caught  the  spirit.  Men's  and 
women's  voices,  and  little  children's,  were  in  it.  Hiram  said, 
without  any  of  his  usual  pertness,  — 

"  Doctor,  there's  somethin'  in  folks  singin'  when  you  are  outside 
the  church  that  makes  you  feel  as  though  you  ought  to  be  inside. 
Mebbe  a  fellow  will  be  left  outside  up  there  when  they're  singin', 
if  he  don't  look  out." 

When  the  last  verse  had  ended,  a  pause  and  silence  ensued. 
Then  came  a  gentle  bustle,  a  sound  of  pattering  feet.  Out  shot  a 
boy,  and  then  two  or  three ;  and  close  upon  them  a  bunch  of  men. 
The  doors  were  wide  open  and  thronged.  The  whole  green  was 
covered  with  people,  and  the  sidewalks  were  crowded. 

Tommy  Taft  met  the  minister  at  the  door,  and  put  out  his  great 
rough  hand  to  shake. 

"  Thankee,  doctor ;  thankee  :  very  well  done.  Coulcfti't  do  it 
better  myself.  It'll  do  good,  —  know  it.  Feel  better  myself.  I 
need  just  such  preach  in',  —  mouldy  old  sinner,  —  need  a  scourin' 
about  once  a  week.  Drefful  wicked  to  hev  such  doctrine,  and  not 
be  no  better ;  ain't  it,  doctor  ?  " 


RALPH   WALDO    EMERSOK 

BORN  IN  1803,  BOSTON,  MASS. 

Mr.  Emerson  now  lives  in  Concord,  Mass.,  and  writes  and  lectures  at  his  leisure. 
Many  of  his  admirers  regard  him  as  the  greatest  thinker  and  philosopher  of  his  time; 
others,  admitting  the  power  of  his  genius  and  his  great  originality  of  thought  and 
expression,  claim  that  one  quality  of  a  great  writer  and  thinker  is  trie-ability  to  speak 
to  the  comprehension  of  the  greatest  number,  and  so  do  not  yield  their  admiration 
freely  to  one  whom  they  often  can  not  fully  understand.  It  is  not  to  be  denied  that 
he  stands  forth  as  one  of  the  foremost  thinkers  of  the  age;  and  his  keen  analysis  of 
man  and  Nature,  his  comprehensive  views  of  life  and  its  issues,  though  expressed 
frequently  in  a  style  above  the  level  of  the  rapid  or  general  reader,  place  him  in  the 
front  rank  of  philosophical  essayists.  He  has  published  several  volumes  of  lectures  and 
essays,  and  a  volume  of  poems/  We  select^from  his  "  Representative  Men,"  Napoleon, 
or  the  Man  of  the  Worll,  as  serving  to  illustrate  the  wonderful  vigor  of  his  style,  and 
at  the  same  time  being  freest  from  metaphysical  speculations  and  transcendentalism. 


NAPOLEON;     OR,    THE  MAN  OF   THE   WORLD. 

AMONG  the  eminent  persons  of  the  nineteenth  century,  Bona- 
parte is  far  the  best  known  and  the  most  powerful,  and  owes  his 
predominance  to  the  fidelity  with  which  he  expresses  the  tone  of 
thought  and  belief,  the  aims  of  the  masses  of  active  and  cultivated 
men.  It  is  Swcdenborg's  theory,  that  every  organ  is  made  up  of 


132  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

homogeneous  particles ;  or,  as  it  is  sometimes  expressed,  every 
whole  is  made  of  similars :  that  is,  the  lungs  are  composed  of  infi- 
nitely small  lungs ;  the  liver,  of  infinitely  small  livers  ;  the  kidney, 
of  little  kidneys,  &c.  Following  this  analogy,  if  any  man  is  found 
to  carry  with  him  the  power  and  affections  of  vast  numbers,  if 
Napoleon  is  France,  if  Napoleon  is  Europe,  it  is  because  the  people 
whom  he  sways  are  little  Napoleons. 

In  our  society,  there  is  a  standing  antagonism  between  the 
conservative  and  the  democratic  classes;  between  those  who  have 
made  their  fortunes,  and  the  young  and  the  poor  who  have 
fortunes  to  make  ;  between  the  interests  of  dead  labor,  —  that  is, 
the  labor  of  hands  long  ago  still  in  the  grave,  which  labor  is  now 
entombed  in  money-stocks,  or  in  land  and  buildings  owned  by  idle 
capitalists,  —  and  the  interests  of  living  labor,  which  seeks  to 
possess  itself  of  land  and  buildings  and  money-stocks.  The  first 
class  is  timid,  selfish,  illiberal,  hating  innovation,  and  continually 
losing  numbers  by  death.  The  second  class  is  selfish  also, 
encroaching,  bold,  self-relying,  always  outnumbering  the  other, 
and  recruiting  its  numbers  every  hour  by  births :  it  desires  to 
keep  open  every  avenue  to  the  competition  of  all,  and  to  multiply 
avenues,  —  the  class  of  business-men  in  America,  in  England,  in 
France,  and  throughout  Europe,  —  the  class  of  industry  and  skill. 
Napoleon  is  its  representative.  The  instinct  of  active,  brave,  able 
men,  throughout  the  middle  class  everywhere,  has  pointed  out 
Napoleon  as  the  incarnate  democrat.  He  had  their  virtues  and 
their  vices  ;  above  all,  he  had  their  spirit  or  aim.  That  tendency 
is  material,  pointing  at  a  sensual  success,  and  emplojTing  the  rich- 
est and  most  various  means  to  that  end,  —  conversant  with  mechan- 
ical powers,  highly  intellectual,  widely  and  accurately  learned  and 
skillful,  but  .subordinating  all  intellectual  and  spiritual  forces  into 
means  to  a  material  success.  To  be  the  rich  man  is  the  end. 
"  God  has  granted,"  says  the  Koran,  "  to  every  people,  a  prophet' 
in  its  own  tongue."  Paris  and  London  and  New  York,  the 
spirit  of  commerce,  of  money,  and  material  power,  were  also  to 
have  their  prophet ;  and  Bonaparte  was  qualified  and  sent. 

Every  one  of  the  million  readers  of  anecdotes  or  memoirs  or 
lives  of  Xapoleou  delights  in  the  page,  because  he  studies  in  it 
his  own  history.  Napoleon  is  thoroughly  modern,  and,  at  the 
highest  point  of  his  fortunes,  has  the  very  spirit  of  the  newspapers. 
He  is  no  saint ;  to  use  his  own  word,  "  no  capuchin : "  and  he  is 
no  hero  in  the  high  sense.  The  man  in  the  street  finds  in  him 
the  qualities  and  powers  of  other  men  in  the  street.  He  finds 
him,  like  himself,  by  birth  a  citizen,  who  by  very  intelligible 
merits  arrived  at  such  a  commanding  position,  that  he  could  in- 
dulge all  those  tastes  which  the  common  man  possesses,  but  is 
obliged  to  conceal  and  deny.  Good  society,  good  books,  fast  travel- 


RALPH   WALDO    EMERSOX.  133 

ing,  dress,  dinners,  servants  without  number,  personal  weight,  tho 
execution  of  his  ideas,  the  standing  in  the  attitude  of  a  benefactor 
to  all  persons  about  him,  the  refined  enjoyments  of  pictures,  statues, 
music,  palaces,  and  conventional  honors,  —  precisely  what  is  agree- 
able to  the  heart  of  every  man  in  the  nineteenth  century,  —  this 
powerful  man  possessed. 

It  is  true  that  a  man  of  Napoleon's  truth  of  adaptation  to  the 
mind  of  the  masses  around  him  becomes  not  merely  representa- 
tive, but  actually  a  monopolizer  and  usurper  of  other  minds.  Thus 
Mirabeau  plagiarized  every  good  thought,  every  good  word,  that 
was  spoken  in  France.  Dumont  relates  that  he  sat  in  the  gallery 
of  the  Convention,  and  heard  Mirabeau  make  a  speech.  It  struck 
Dumont  that  he  could  fit  it  with  a  peroration,  which  he  wrote  in 
pencil  immediately,  and  showed  it  to  Lord  Elgin,  who  sat  by  him. 
Lord  Elgin  approved  it ;  and  Dumont,  in  the  evening,  showed  it 
to  Mirabeau.  Mirabeau  read  it,  pronounced  it  admirable,  and 
declared  he  would  incorporate  it  into  his  harangue  to-morrow  to 
the  Assembly;  "It  is  impossible,"  said  Dumont,  "as,  unfor- 
tunately, I  have  shown  it  to  Lord  Elgin."  —  "  If  you  have  sho\vn 
it  to  Lord  Elgin,  and  to  fifty  persons  beside,  I  shall  still  speak  it 
to-morrow."  And  he  did  speak  it,  with  much  effect,  at  the  next 
day's  session;  for  Mirabeau,  with  his  overpowering  personality, 
felt  that  these  things  which  his  presence  inspired  were  as  much 
his  own  as  if  he  had  said  them,  and  that  his  adoption  of  them  gave 
them  their  weight.  Much  more  absolute  and  centralizing  was  the 
successor  to  Mirabeau's  popularity  and  to  much  more  than  his 
predominance  in  France.  Indeed,  a  man  of  Napoleon's  stamp 
almost  ceases  to  have  a  private  speech  and  opinion.  He  is  so 
largely  receptive,  and  is  so  placed,  that  he  comes  to  be  a  bureau 
for  all  the  intelligence,  wit,  and  power  of  the  age  and  country. 
He  gains  the  battle;  he  makes  the  code  ;  he  makes  the  system  of 
weights  and  measures;  he  levels  the  Alps;  he  builds  the  road. 
All  distinguished  engineers,  savans,  statists,  report  to  him  :  so, 
likewise,  do  all  good  heads  in  every  kind.  He  adopts  the  best 
measures,  sets  his  stamp  on  them,  and  not  these  alone,  but  on  every 
happy  and  memorable  expression.  Every  sentence  spoken  by 
Napoleon,  and  every  line  of  his  writing,  deserves  reading,  as  it  is 
the  sense  of  France. 

Bonaparte  was  the  idol  of  common  men  because  he  had  in 
transcendent  degree  the  qualities  and  powers  of  common  men. 
There  is  a  certain  satisfaction  in  coming  down  to  the  lowest  ground 
of  politics  ;  for  we  get  rid  of  cant  and  hypocrisy.  Bonaparte 
wrought,  in  common  with  that  great  class  he  represented,  for 
power  and  wealth ;  but  Bonaparte,  specially,  without  any  scruple 
as  to  the  means.  All  the  sentiments  which  embarrass  men's 
pursuit  of  these  objects  he  set  aside.  The  sentiments  were  for 


134  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

women  and  children.  Fontanes,  in  1804,  expressed  Napoleon's 
own  sense,  when,  in  behalf  of  the  Senate,  he  addressed  him, 
"  Sire,  the  desire  of  perfection  is  the,  worst  disease  that  evrer 
afflicted  the  human  mind."  The  advocates  of  liberty  and  of 
progress  are  "  ideologists,"  —  a  word  of  contempt  often  in  his 
mouth.  "  Necker  is  an  ideologist ;  "  "  Lafayette  is  an  ideologist." 

An  Italian  proverb,  too  well  known,  declares,  that,  "  if  you 
would  succeed,  you  must  not  be  too  good."  It  is  an  advantage, 
within  certain  limits,  to  have  renounced  the  dominion  of  the  senti- 
ments of  piety,  gratitude,  and  generosity ;  since  what  was  an 
impassable  bar  to  us,  and  still  is  to  others,  becomes  a  convenient 
weapon  for  our  purposes, — just  as  the  river,  which  was  a  formi- 
dable barrier,  winter  transforms  into  the  smoothest  of  roads. 

Napoleon  renounced,  once  for  all,  sentiments  and  affections,  and 
would  help  himself  with  his  hands  and  his  head.  With  him  is  no 
miracle  and  no  magic.  He  is  a  worker  in  brass,  in  iron,  in  wood, 
i.i  earth,  in  roads,  in  buildings,  in  money,  and  in  troops;  and  a  very 
consistent  and  wise  master-workman.  He  is  never  weak  and  lite- 
rary, but  acts  with  the  solidity  and  the  precision  of  natural  agents. 
He  has  not  lost  his  native  sense,  and  sympathy  with  tilings.  Men 
give  way  before  such  a  man  as  berore  natural  events.  To  be 
sure,  there  are  men  enough  who  are  immersed  in  things,  as  farm- 
ers, smiths,  sailors,  and  mechanics  generally  ;  and  we  know  how 
real  and  solid  such  men  appear  in  the  presence  of  scholars  and 
grammarians:  but  these  men  ordinarily  lack  the  power  of  arrange- 
ment, and  are  like  hands  without  a  head.  But  Bonaparte  super- 
added  to  this  mineral  and  a:iimal  force  insight  and  generalization; 
so  that  men  saw  in  him  combined  the  natural  and  the  intellectual 
power,  as  if  the  sea  and  land  had  taken  flesh,  and  begun  to  cipher. 
Therefore  the  land  and  sea  seem  to  presuppose  him.  He  came 
unto  his  own,  and  they  received  him.  This  ciphering  operative 
knows  what  he  is  working  with,  and  what  is  the  product.  He 
knew  the  properties  of  gold  and  iron,  of  wheels  and  ships,  of 
troops  and  diplomatists,  and  required  that  each  should  do  after  its 
kind. 

The  art  of  war  was  the  game  in  which  he  exerted  his  arith- 
metic. It  consisted,  according  to  him,  in  having  always  more  forces 
than  the  enemy  on  the-  point  where  the  enemy  is  attacked,  or 
where  he  attacks  ;  and  his  whole  talent  is  strained  by  endless 
maneuver  and  evolution  to  march  always  on  the  enemy  at  an 
angle,  and  destroy  his  forces  in  detail.  It  is  obvious  that  a  very 
small  force,  skillfully  and  rapidly  maneuvering,  so  as  always  to 
bring  two  men  against  one  at  the  point  of  engagement,  will  be  an 
overmatch  for  a  much  larger  body  of  men. 

The  times,  his  constitution,  and  his  early  circumstances,  com- 
bined to  develop  this  pattern  democrat.  He  had  the  virtues  of 


BALPH  WALDO   EMERSON.  135 

his  class,  and  the  conditions  for  their  activity.  That  common 
sense,  which  no  sooner  respects  any  end  than  it  finds  the  means 
to  effect  it ;  the  delight  in  the  use  of  means  :  in  the  choice,  sim- 
plification, and  combining  of  means  ;  the  directness  and  thorough- 
ness of  his  work;  the  prudence  with  which  all  was  seen,  and  the 
energy  with  which  all  was  done,  —  make  him  the  natural  organ  and 
head  of  what  I  may  almost  call,  from  its  extent,  the  modern 
party. 

Nature  must  have  far  the  greatest  share  in  every  success ;  and 
so  in  his.  Such  a  man  was  wanted,  and  such  a  man  was  born,  — 
a  man  of  stone  and  iron,  capable  of  sitting  on  horseback  sixteen 
or  seventeen  hours,  of  going  many  days  together  without  rest  or 
food  except  by  snatches,  and  with  the  speed  and  spring  of  a  tiger 
in  action  ;  a  man  not  embarrassed  by  any  scruples  ;  compact,  in- 
stant, selfish,  prudent,  and  of  a  perception  which  did  not  suffer 
itself  to  be  balked  or  misled  by  any  pretenses  of  others,  or  any 
superstition,  or  any  heat  or  haste  of  his  own.  "  My  hand  of  iron," 
he  said,  "  was  not  at  the  extremity  of  my  arm  :  it  was  immediately 
connected  with  my  head."  He  respected  the  power  of  Nature  and 
Fortune,  and  ascribed  to  it  his  superiority,  instead  of  valuing  him- 
self, like  inferior  men,  on  his  opinionativeness,  and  waging  war  with 
Nature.  His  favorite  rhetoric  lay  in  allusion  to  his  star  ;  and  he 
pleased  himself,  as  well  as  the  people,  when  he  styled  himself  the 
"  Child  of  Destiny."  "  They  charge  me,"  he  said,  "  with  the  com- 
mission of  great  crimes  :  men  of  my  stamp  do  not  commit  crimes. 
Nothing  has  been  more  simple  than  my  elevation  :  'tis  in  vain  to 
ascribe  it  to  intrigue  or  crime.  It  was  owing  to  the  peculiarity  of 
the  times,  and  to  my  reputation  of  having  fought  well  against  the 
enemies  of  my  country.  I  have  always  marched  with  the  opinion 
of  great  masses,  and  with  events.  Of  what  use,  then,  would  crimes 
be  to  me  ?  "  Again  he  said,  speaking  of  his  son,  "  My  son  can 
not  replace  me  :  I  could  not  replace  myself.  I  am  the  creature 
of  circumstances." 

He  had  a  directness  of  action  never  before  combined  with  so 
much  comprehension.  He  is  a  realist,  terrific  to  all  talkers  and 
confused  truth-obscuring  persons.  He  sees  where  the  matter 
hinges,  throws  himself  on  the  precise  point  of  resistance,  and 
slights  all  other  considerations.  He  is  strong  in  the  right  manner; 
namely,  by  insight.  He  never  blundered  into  victory,  but  won 
his  battles  in  his  head  before  he  won  them  on  the  field.  His 
principal  means  are  in  himself.  He  asks  counsel  of  no  other.  In 
1796,  he  writes  to  the  Directory,  "  I  have  conducted  the  campaign 
without  consulting  any  one.  I  should  have  done  no  good  if  I  had 
been  under  the  necessity  of  conforming  to  the  notions  of  another 
person.  I  have  gained  some  advantages  over  superior  forces,  and 
when  totally  destitute  of  every  thing,  because,  in  the  persua- 


136  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

sion  that  your  confidence  was  reposed  in  me,  my  actions  were  as 
prompt  as  my  thoughts." 

History  is  full,  down  to  this  day,  of 'the  imbecility  of  kings  and 
governors.  They  are  a  class  of  persons  much  to  be  pitied ;  for  they 
know  not  what  they  should  do.  The  weavers  strike  for  bread  ; 
and  the  king  and  his  ministers,  not  knowing  what  to  do,  meet 
them  with  bayonets.  But  Xapoleon  understood  his  business. 
Here  was  a  man  who  in  each  moment  and  emergency  knew  what 
to  do  next.  It  is  an  immense  comfort  and  refreshment  to  the 
spirits,  not  only  of  kings,  but  of  citizens.  Few  men  have  any 
next ;  they  live  from  hand  to  mouth,  without  plan,  and  are  ever 
at  the  end  of  their  line,  and,  after  each  action,  wait  for  an  impulse 
from  abroad.  Xapoleon  had  been  the  first  man  of  the  world  if  his 
ends  had  been  purely  public.  As  he  is,  he  inspires  confidence  and 
vigor  by  the  extraordinary  unity  of  his  action.  He  is  firm,  sure, 
self-denying,  self- postponing,  sacrificing  every  thing  to  his  aim, — 
money,  troops,  generals,  and  his  own  safety  also,  to  his  aim ;  not 
misled,  like  common  adventurers,  by  the  splendor  of  his  own 
means.  "  Incidents  ought  not  to  govern  policy,"  he  said,  "  but 
policy  incidents."  "  To  be  hurried  away  by  every  event  is  to 
have  no  political  system  at  all."  His  victories  were  only  so  many 
doors  ;  and  he  never  for  a  moment  lost  sight  of  his  way  onward  in 
the  dazzle  and  uproar  of  the  present  circumstance.  He  knew  what 
to  do,  and  he  flew  to  his  mark.  He  would  shorten  a  straight  line 
to  come  at  his  object.  Horrible  anecdotes  may  no  doubt  be 
collected  from  his  history,  of  the  price  at  which  he  bought  his 
successes :  but  he  must  not  therefore  be  set  down  as  cruel,  but 
only  as  one  who  knew  no  impediment  to  his  will ;  not  bloodthirsty, 
not  cruel ;  but  woe  to  what  thing  or  person  stood  in  his  way  !  Not 
bloodthirsty,  but  not  sparing  of  blood,  and  pitiless.  He  saw 
only  the  object :  the  obstacle  must  give  way.  "  Sire,  Gen.  Clarke 
can  not  combine  with  Gen.  Junot  for  the  dreadful  fire  of  the 
Austrian  battery." — "Let  him  carry  the  battery!"  —  "Sire, 
every  regiment  that  approaches  the  heavy  artillery  is  sacrificed. 
Sire,  what  orders  ?  "  —  "  Forward,  forward  !  "  Seruzier,  a  colonel 
of  artillery,  gives  in  his  "  Military  Memoirs"  the  following  sketch 
of  a  scene  after  the  battle  of  Austerlitz  :  "  At  the  moment  in 
which  the  Russian  army  was  making  its  retreat,  painfully,  but  in 
good  order,  on  the  ice  of  the  lake,  the  Emperor  Xapoleon  came 
riding  at  full  speed  toward  the  artillery.  *  You  are  losing  time,' 
he  cried.  '  Fire  upon  those  masses  !  they  must  be  ingulfed  :  fire 
upon  the  ice  ! '  The  order  remained  unexecuted  for  ten  minutes. 
In  vain  several  officers  and  myself  were  placed  on  the  slope  of  a 
hill  to  produce  the  effect:  their  balls  and  mine  rolled  upon  the 
ice  without  breaking  it  up.  Seeing  that,  I  tried  a  simple  method 
of  elevating  light  howitzers.  The  almost  perpendicular  fall  of  the 


RALPH   WALDO    EMERSON.  137 

heavy  projectiles  produced  the  desired  effect.  My  method  was 
immediately  followed  by  the  adjoining  batteries;  and  in  less  than 
no  time  we  buried"  some*  "thousands  of  .Russians  and  Austrians 
under  the  waters  of  the  lake." 

In  the  plenitude  of  his  resources,  every  obstacle  seemed  to  van- 
ish. "  There  shall  be  no  Alps,"  he  said  ;  and  he  built  his  perfect 
roads,  climbing  by  graded  galleries  their  steepest  precipices,  until 
Italy  was  as  open  to  Paris  as  any  town  in  France.  He  laid  his 
bones  to,  and  wrought  for  his  crown.  Having  decided  what  was 
to  be  done,  he  did  that  with  might  and  main.  He  put  out  all  his 
strength.  He  risked  every  thing,  and  spared  nothing,  —  neither 
ammunition  nor  money  nor  troops  nor  generals  nor  himself. 

We  like  to  see  every  thing  do  its  office  after  its  kind,  whether 
it  be  a  milch-cow  or  a  rattle-snake ;  and,  if  fighting  be  the  best 
mode  of  adjusting  national  differences  (as  large  majorities  of  men 
seem  to  agree),  certainly  Bonaparte  was  right  in  making  it  thor- 
ough. "The  grand  principle  of  war,"  he  said,  "was,  that  an 
army  ought  always  to  be  ready,  by  day  arid  by  night,  and  at  all 
hours,  to  make  all  the  resistance  it  is  capable  of  making."  He 
never  economized  his  ammunition,  but  on  a  hostile  position 
rained  a  torrent  of  iron  —  shells,  balls,  grape-shot  —  to  annihi- 
late'all  defense.  On  any  point  of  resistance,  he  concentrated 
squadron  on  squadron  in  overwhelming  numbers,  until  it  was 
swept  out  of  existence.  To  a  regiment  of  horse-chasseurs  at 
Lobenstein,  two  days  before  the  battle  of  Jena,  Napoleon  said, 
"  My  lads,  you  must  not  fear  death :  when  soldiers  brave  death, 
they  drive  him  into  the  enemy's  ranks."  In  the  fury  of  assault, 
he  no  more  spared  himself.  He  went  to  the  edge  of  his  possi- 
bility. It  is  plain  that  in  Italy  he  did  what  he  could,  and  all 
that  he  could.  He  came  several  times  within  an  inch  of  ruin; 
and  his  own  person  was  all  but  lost.  He  was  flung  into  the 
marsh  at  Arcola.  The  Austrians  were  between  him  and  his 
troops  in  the  melee,  and  he  was  brought  off  with  desperate 
efforts.  At  Lonato,  and  at  other  places,  he  was  on  the  point  of 
being  taken  prisoner.  He  fought  sixty  battles.  He  had  never 
enough.  Each  victory  was  a  new  weapon.  "  My  power  would 
fall  were  I  not  to  support  it  by  new  achievements.  Conquest 
has  made  me  what  I  am,  and  conquest  must  maintain  me."  He 
felt,  with  every  wise  man,  that  as  much  life  is  needed  for  conser- 
vation as  for  creation.  We  are  always  in  peril,  always  in  a  bad 
plight,  just  on  the  edge  of  destruction,  and  only  to  be  saved  by 
invention  and  courage. 

This  vigor  was  guarded  and  tempered  by  the  coldest  prudence 
and  punctuality.  A  thunderbolt  in  the  attack,  he  was  found  in- 

*  As  I  quote  at  second-hand,  and  can  not  procure  Seruzier,  I  dare  not  adopt  the 
high  figure  I  find. 


138  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

vulnerable  in  his  intrenchments.  His  very  attack  was  never 
the  inspiration  of  courage,  but  the  result  of  calculation.  His 
idea  of  the  best  defense  consists  in  being  still  the  attacking  party. 
"  My  ambition,"  he  says,  "  was  great,  but  was  of  a  cold  nature." 
In  one  of  his  conversations  with  Las  Casas,  he  remarked,  "  As  to 
moral  courage,  I  have  rarely  met  with  the  two-o'clock-in-the- 
morning  kind :  I  mean  unprepared  courage ;  that  which  is  neces- 
sary on  an  unexpected  occasion,  and  which,  in  spite  of  the  most 
unforeseen  events,  leaves  full  freedom  of  judgment  and  decision." 
And  he  did  not  hesitate  to  declare  that  he  was  himself  eminently 
endowed  with  this  "  two-o'clock-in-the-morning  courage,  and  that 
he  had  met  with  few  persons  equal  to  himself  in  this  respect." 

Every  thing  depended  on  the  nicety  of  his  combinations ;  and 
the  stars  were  not  more  punctual  than  his  arithmetic.  His  per- 
sonal attention  descended  to  the  smallest  particulars.  "  At  Mon- 
tebello,  I  ordered  Kellermann  to  attack  with  eight  hundred  horse; 
and  with  these  he  separated  the  six  thousand  Hungarian  grena- 
diers before  the  very  eyes  of  the  Austrian  cavalry.  This  cavalry 
was  half  a  league  off,  and  required  a  quarter  of  an  hour  to  arrive 
on  the  field  of  action;  and  I  have  observed  that  it  is  always 
these  quarters  of  an  hour  that  decide  the  fate  of  a  battle."  "  Be- 
fore he  fought  a  battle,  Bonaparte  thought  little  about  what  he 
should  do  in  case  of  success,  but  a  great  deal  about  what  he 
should  do  in  case  of  a  reverse  of  fortune."  The  same  prudence 
and  good  sense  mark  all  his  behavior.  His  instructions  to  his 
secretary  at  the  Tuileries  are  worth  remembering  :  "  During  the 
night,  enter  my  chamber  as  seldom  as  possible.  Do  not  awake 
me  when  you  have  any  good  news  to  communicate;  witli  that 
there  is  no  hurry:  but,  when  you  bring  bad  news,  rouse  me  in- 
stantly; for  then  there  is  not  a  moment  to  be  lost,"  It  was  a 
whimsical  economy  of  the  same  kind  which  dictated  his  practice, 
when  general  in  Italy,  in  regard  to  his  burdensome  correspond- 
ence. He  directed  Bourrienne  to  leave  all  letters  unopened  for 
three  weeks,  and  then  observed  with  satisfaction  how  large  a  part 
of  the  correspondence  had  thus  disposed  of  itself,  and  no  longer 
required  an  answer.  His  achievement  of  business  was  immense, 
and  enlarges  the  known  powers  of  man.  There  have  been  many 
working  kings  from  Ulysses  to  William  of  Orange,  but  none  who 
accomplished  a  tithe  of  this  man's  performance. 

To  these  gifts  of  Nature  Napoleon  added  the  advantage  of 
having  been  born  to  a  private  and  humble  fortune.  In  his  later 
days,  he  had  the  weakness  of  wishing  to  add  to  his  crowns  and 
badges  the  prescription  of  aristocracy  ;  but  he  knew  his  debt  to 
his  austere  education,  and  made  no  secret  of  his  contempt  for  the 
born  kings,  and  for  "  the  hereditary  asses,"  as  he  coarsely  styled 
the  Bourbons.  He  said,  that  "in  their  exile  they  had  learned 


RALPH   WALDO   EMERSOX.  139 

nothing,  and  forgot  nothing."  Bonaparte  had  passed  through  all 
the  degrees  of  military  service;  but  also  was  citizen  before  he  was 
emperor,  and  so  has  the  key  to  citizenship.  His  remarks  and 
estimates  discover  the  information  and  justness  of  measurement 
of  the  middle  class.  Those  who  had  to  deal  with  him  found  that 
he  was  not  to  be  imposed  upon,  but  could  cipher  as  well  as  another 
man.  This  appears  in  all  parts  of  his  Memoirs,  dictated  at  St. 
Helena.  When  the  expenses  of  the  empress,  of  his  household, 
of  his  palaces,  had  accumulated  great  debts,  Napoleon  examined 
the  bills  of  the  creditors  himself,  detected  overcharges  and  errors, 
and  reduced  the  claims  by  considerable  sums. 

His  grand  weapon  —  namely,  tUe  millions  whom  he  directed  — 
he  owed  to  the  representative  character  which  clothed  him.  He 
interests  us  as  he  stands  for  France  and  for  Europe ;  and  he  exists 
as  captain  and  king  only  as  far  as  the  E/evolution,  or  the  inter- 
est of  the  industrious  masses,  found  an  organ  and  a  leader  in 
him.  In  the  social  interests,  he  knew  the  meaning  and  value  of 
labor,  and  threw  himself  naturally  on  that  side.  I  like  an  inci- 
dent mentioned  by  one  of  his  biographers  at  St.  Helena :  "  When 
walking  with  Mrs.  Balcombe,  some  servants,  carrying  heavy 
boxes,  passed  by  on  the  road ;  and  Mrs.  Balcombe  desired  them, 
in  rather  an  angry  tone,  to  keep  back.  Napoleon  interfered,  say- 
ing, {  Respect  the  burden,  madam.'  "  In  the  time  of  the  empire, 
he  directed  attention  to  the  improvement  and  embellishment  of 
the  markets  of  the  capital.  "  The  market-place,"  he  said,  "  is  the 
Louvre  of  the  common  people."  The  principal  works  that  have 
survived  him  are  his  magnificent  roads.  He  filled  the  troops 
with  his  spirit ;  and  a  sort  of  freedom  and  companionship  grew 
up  between  him  and  them,  which  the  forms  of  his  court  never 
permitted  between  the  officers  and  himself.  They  performed 
under  his  eye  that  which  no  others  could  do.  The  best  docu- 
ment of  his  relation  to  his  troops  is  the  order  of  the  day  on  the 
morning  of  the  battle  of  Austerlitz,  in  which  Napoleon  promises 
the  troops  that  he  will  keep  his  person  out  of  reach  of  fire. 
This  declaration,  which  is  the  reverse  of  that  ordinarily  made  by 
generals  and  sovereigns  on  the  eve  of  a  battle,  sufficiently  ex- 
plains the  devotion  of  the  army  to  their  leader. 

But,  though  there  is  in  particulars  this  identity  between  Napo- 
leon and  the  mass  of  the  people,  his  real  strength  lay  in  their 
conviction  that  he  was  their  representative  in  his  genius  and  aims, 
not  only  when  he  courted,  but  when  he  controlled  and  even  when 
he  decimated  them  by  his  conscriptions.  He  knew,  as  well  as  any 
Jacobin  in  France,  how  to  philosophize  on  liberty  and  equality; 
and  when  allusion  was  made  to  the  precious  blood  of  centuries, 
which  was  spilled  By  the  killing  of  the  Due  d'Enghien,  he  sug- 
gested, "  Neither  is  my  blood  ditch-water."  The  people  felt  that 


140  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

no  longer  the  throne  was  occupied,  and  the  land  sucked  of  its 
nourishment,  by  a  small  class  of  legitimates  secluded  from  all 
community  with  the  children  of  the  *soil,  and  holding  the  ideas 
and  superstitions  of  a  long-forgotten  state  of  societ}-.  In- 
stead of  that  vampire,  a  man  of  themselves  held  in  the  Tuile- 
ries  knowledge  and  ideas  like  their  own ;  opening  of  course,  to 
them  and  their  children,  all  places  of  power  and  trust.  The  day 
of  sleepy,  selfish  policy,  ever  narrowing  the  means  and  opportu- 
nities of  young  men,  was  ended ;  and  a  day  of  expansion  and  de- 
mand was  come.  A  market  for  all  the  powers  and  productions 
of  man  was  opened ;  brilliant  prizes  glittered  in  the  eyes  of  youth 
and  talent.  The  old,  iron-bound,  feudal  France  was  changed  into 
a  young  Ohio  or  Xew  York ;  and  those  who  smarted  under  the 
immediate  rigors  of  the  new  monarch  pardoned  them  as  the 
necessary  severities  of  the  military  system  which  had  driven  out 
the  oppressor.  And,  even  when  the  majority  of  the  people  had 
begun  to  ask  whether  they  had  really  gained  any  thing  under 
the  exhausting  levies  of  men  and  money  of  the  new  master, 
the  whole  talent  of  the  country,  in  every  rank  and  kindred,  took 
his  part,  and  defended  him  as  its  natural  patron.  In  1814,  when 
advised  to  rely  on  the  higher  classes,  Napoleon  said  to  those 
around  him,  "  Gentlemen,  in  the  situation  in  which  I  stand,  niy 
only  nobility  is  the  rabble  of  the  faubourgs." 

Napoleon  met  this  natural  expectation.  The  necessity  of  his 
position  required  a  hospitality  to  every  sort  of  talent,  and  its  ap- 
pointment to  trusts;  and  his  feeling  went  along  with  this  policy. 
Like  every  superior  person,  he  undoubtedly  felt  a  desire  for  men 
and  compeers,  and  a  wish  to  measure  his  power  with  other  mas- 
ters, and  an  impatience  of  fools  and  underlings.  In  Italy,  he 
sought  for  men,  and  found  none.  "Good  God!"  he  said,  "how 
rare  men  are !  There  are  eighteen  millions  in  Italy,  and  I  have 
with  difficulty  found  two,  —  Dandolo  and  Melzi."  In  later  years, 
with  larger  experience,  his  respect  for  mankind  was  not  increased. 
In  a  moment  of  bitterness,  he  said  to  one  of  his  oldest  friends, 
"  Men  deserve  the  contempt  with  which  they  inspire  me.  I  have 
only  to  put  some  gold  lace  on  the  coat  of  my  virtuous  republicans, 
and  they  immediately  become  just  what  I  wish  them."  This  im- 
patience at  levity  was,  however,  an  oblique  tribute  of  respect  to 
those  able  persons  who  commanded  his  regard,  not  only  when  he 
found  them  friends  and  coadjutors,  but  also  when  they  resisted 
his  will.  He  could  not  confound  Fox  and  Pitt,  Carnot,  Lafay- 
ette, and  Bernadotte,  with  the  danglers  of  his  court;  and,  in 
spite  of  the  detraction  which  his  systematic  egotism  dictated 
toward  the  great  captains  who  conquered  with  and  for  him.  ample 
acknowledgments  are  made  by  him  to  Lannes,  Duroc,  Kleber, 
Dessaix,  Massena,  Murat,  Ney,  and  Augereau.  If  he  felt  him- 


RALPH   WALDO   EMERSON.  141 

self  their  patron,  and  the  founder  of  their  fortunes,  —  as  when  he 
said,  "I  made  my  generals  out  of  mud,"  —  he  could  not  hide  his 
satisfaction  in  receiving  from  them  a  seconding  and  support  com- 
mensurate with  the  grandeur  of  his  enterprise.  In  the  Russian 
campaign,  he  was  so  much  impressed  by  the  courage  and  resources 
of  Marshal  Key,  that  he  said,  "I  have  two  hundred  millions  in 
my  coffers,  and  I  would  give  them  all  for  Ney."  The  characters 
which  he  has  drawn  of  several  of  his  marshals  are  discriminating, 
and,  though  they  did  not  content  the  insatiable  vanity  of  French 
officers,  are  no  doubt  substantially  just.  And,  in  fact,  every 
species  of  merit  was  sought  and  advanced  under  his  government. 
"  I  know,"  he  said,  "  the  depth  and  draught  of  water  of  every 
one  of  my  generals."  Natural  power  was  sure  to  be  wrell  received 
at  his  court.  Seventeen  men,  in  his  time,  were  raised  from  com- 
mon soldiers  to  the  rank  of  king,  marshal,  duke,  or  general ;  and 
the  crosses  of  his  Legion  of  Honor  were  given  to  personal  valor, 
and  not  to  family  connection.  "  When  soldiers  have  been  bap- 
tized in  the  fire  of  a  battle-field,  they  have  all  one  rank  in  my 
eyes." 

When  a  natural  king  becomes  a  titular  king,  everybody  is 
pleased  and  satisfied.  The  Revolution  entitled  the  strong  popu- 
lace of  the  Faubourg  St.  Antoine,  and  every  horseboy  and  pow- 
der-monkey in  the  army,  to  look  on  Napoleon  as  flesh  of  his 
flesh,  and  the  creature  of  his  party.  But  there  is  something  in 
the  success  of  grand  talent  which  enlists  a  universal  sympathy : 
for,  in  the  prevalence  of  sense  and  spirit  over  stupidity  and  mal- 
versation, all  reasonable  men  have  an  interest ;  and,  as  intellect- 
ual beings,  we  feel  the  air  purified  by  the  electric  shock  when 
material  force  is  overthrown  by  intellectual  energies.  As  soon  as 
we  are  removed  out  of  the  reach  of  local  and  accidental  partialities, 
man  feels  that  Napoleon  fights  for  him ;  these  are  honest  victo- 
ries ;  this  strong  steam-engine  does  our  work.  Whatever  appeals 
to  the  imagination  by  transcending  the  ordinary  limits  of  human 
ability,  wonderfully  encourages  and  liberates  us.  This  capacious 
head,  revolving  and  disposing  sovereignly  trains  of  affairs,  and 
animating  such  multitudes  of  agents;  this  eye,  which  looked 
through  Europe;  this  prompt  invention;  this  inexhaustible  re- 
source, —  what  events !  what  romantic  pictures  !  what  strange 
situations !  —  when  spying  the  Alps  by  a  sunset  in  the  Sicilian 
Sea ;  drawing  up  his  army  for  battle  in  sight  of  the  Pyramids, 
and  saying  to  his  troops,  "  From  the  tops  of  those  Pyramids  forty 
centuries  look  down  on  you ; "  fording  the  Red  Sea ;  wading  in 
the  gulf  of  the  Isthmus  of  Suez.  On  the  shore  of  Ptolemais, 
gigantic  projects  agitated  him.  "  Had  Acre  fallen,  I  should  have 
changed  the  face  of  the  world."  His  army,  on  the  night  of  the 
battle  of  Austerlitz, — which  was  the  anniversary  of  his  inaugura- 


142  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

tion  as  emperor,  presented  him  with  a  houquet  of  forty  standards 
taken  in  the  fight.  Perhaps  it  is  a  little  puerile  the  pleasure  he 
took  in  making  these  contrasts  glaring;  as  when  he  pleased  him- 
self with  making  kings  wait  in  his  ante-chambers  at  Tilsit,  at 
Paris,  and  at  Erfurt. 

We  can  not,  in  the  universal  imbecility,  indecision,  and  indo- 
lence of  men,  sufficiently  congratulate  ourselves  on  this  strong 
and  ready  actor,  who  took  occasion  by  the  beard,  and  showed  us 
how  much  may  be  accomplished  by  the  mere  force  of  such  virtues 
as  all  men  possess  in  less  degrees;  namely,  by  punctuality,  by 
personal  attention,  by  courage  and  thoroughness.  "The  Aus- 
trians,"  he  said,  "do  not  know  the  value  of  time."  I  should  cite 
him  in  his  earlier  years  as  a  model  of  prudence.  His  power 
does  not  consist  in  any  wild  or  extravagant  force;  in  any  enthu- 
siasm like  Mahomet's,  or  singular  power  of  persuasion ;  but  in 
the  exercise  of  common  sense  on  each  emergency,  instead  of  abid- 
ing by  rules  and  customs.  The  lesson  he  teaches  is  that  which 
vigor  always  teaches,  —  that  there  is  always  room  for  it.  To 
what  heaps  of  cowardly  doubts  is  not  that  man's  life  an  answer! 
When  he  appeared,  it  was  the  belief  of  all  military  men  that 
there  could  be  nothing  new  in  war ;  as  it  is  the  belief  of  men  to- 
day that  nothing  new  can  be  undertaken  in  politics,  or  in  church, 
or  in  letters,  or  in  trade,  or  in  fanning,  or  in  our  social  manners 
and  customs;  and  as  it  is  at  all  times  the  belief  of  society  that 
the  world  is  used  up.  But  Bonaparte  knew  better  than  society; 
and,  moreover,  knew  that  he  knew  better.  I  think  all  men  know 
better  than  they  do,  —  know  that  the  institutions  we  so  volubly 
commend  are  go-carts  and  baubles;  but  they  dare  not  trust  their 
intiments.  Bonaparte  relied  on  his  own  sense,  and  did  not 
care  a  bean  for  other  people's.  The  world  treated  his  novelties 
just  as  it  treats  everybody's  novelties,  —  made  infinite  objection, 
mustered  all  the  impediments ;  but  he  snapped  his  finger  at  their 
objections.  "  What  creates  great  difficulty,"  he  remarks,  "  in  the 
profession  of  the  land-commander,  is  the  necessity  of  feeding  so 
many  men  and  animals.  If  he  allows  himself  to  be  guided  by 
tin;  commissaries,  he  will  never  stir,  and  all  his  expeditions  will 
fail."  An  example  of  his  common  sense  is  what  he  says  of  the 
passage  of  the  Alps  in  winter;  which  all  writers,  one  repeating 
aiv*-r  the  other,  had  described  as  impracticable.  "The  winter," 
says  Napoleon,  "  is  not  the  most  unfavorable  season  for  the  pas- 
sage of  lofty  mountains.  The  snow  is  then  firm,  the  weather  set- 
tlc<l;  and  there  is  nothing  to  fear  from  avalanches,  —  the  real  and 
only  danger  to  be  apprehended  in  the  Alps.  On  those  high 
mountains,  there  are  often  very  fine  days  in  December,  of  a  dry 
cold,  with  extreme  calmness  in  the  air."  Bead  his  account,  too, 
of  the  way  in  which  battles  are  gained:  "In  all  battles,  a  mo- 


RALPH  WALDO   EMERSON.  143 

menfc  occurs  when  the  bravest  troops,  after  having  made  the 
greatest  efforts,  feel  inclined  to  run.  That  terror  proceeds  from  a 
want  of  confidence  in  their  own  courage ;  and  it  only  requires  a 
slight  opportunity,  a  pretense,  to  restore  confidence  to  them. 
The  art  is  to  give  rise  to  the  opportunity,  and  to  invent  the  pre- 
tense. At  Arcola,  I  won  the  battle  with  twenty-five  horsemen. 
I  seized  that  moment  of  lassitude,  gave  every  man  a  trumpet,  and 
gained  the  day  with  this  handful.  You  see  that  two  armies  are 
two  bodies  which  meet,  and  endeavor  to  frighten  each  other :  a 
moment  of  panic  occurs,  and  that  moment  must  be  turned  to 
advantage.  When  a  man  has  been  present  in  many  actions,  he 
distinguishes  that  moment  without  difficulty :  it  is  as  easy  as 
casting  up  an  addition." 

This  deputy  of  the  nineteenth  century  added  to  his  gifts  a  ca- 
pacity for  speculation  on  general  topics.  He  delighted  in  run- 
ning through  the  range  of  practical,  of  literary,  and  of  abstract 
questions.  His  opinion  is  always  original,  and  to  the  purpose. 
On  the  voyage  to  Egypt,  he  liked,  after  dinner,  to  fix  on  three  or 
four  persons  to  support  a  proposition,  and  as  many  to  oppose  it. 
He  gave  a  subject ;  and  the  discussions  turned  on  questions  of 
religion,  the  different  kinds  of  government,  and  the  art  of  war. 
One  day,  he  asked  whether  the  planets  were  inhabited;  on 
another,  what  was  the  age  of  the  world.  Then  he  proposed  to 
consider  the  probability  of  the  destruction  of  the  globe,  either  by 
water  or  by  fire ;  at  another  time,  the  truth  or  fallacy  of  presenti- 
ments, and  the  interpretation  of  dreams.  He  was  very  fond  of 
talking  of  religion.  In  1806,  he  conversed  with  Fournier,  bishop 
of  Montpellier,  on  matters  of  theology.  There  were  two  points 
on  which  they  could  not  agree ;  viz.,  that  of  hell,  and  that  of  sal- 
vation out  of  the  pale  of  the  Church.  The  emperor  told  Jose- 
phine that  he  disputed  like  a  devil  on  these  two  points,  on  which 
the  bishop  was  inexorable.  To  the  philosophers  he  readily  yielded 
all  that  was  proved  against  religion  as  the  work  of  men  and  time ; 
but  he  would  not  hear  of  materialism.  One  fine  night,  on  deck, 
amid  a  clatter  of  materialism,  Bonaparte  pointed  to  the  stars,  and 
said,  "  You  may  talk  as  long  as  you  please,  gentlemen ;  but  who 
made  all  that  ? "  He  delighted  in  the  conversation  of  men  of 
science,  particularly  of  Monge  and  Berthollet:  but  the  men  of 
letters  he  slighted ;  "  they  were  manufacturers  of  phrases." 
Of  medicine,  too,  he  was  fond  of  talking,  and  with  those  of  its 
practitioners  whom  he  most  esteemed,  —  with  Corvisart  at  Paris, 
and  with  Antonomarchi  at  St.  Helena.  "Believe  me,"  he  said  to 
the  last,  "we  had  better  leave  off  all  these  remedies:  life  is  a 
fortress  which  neither  you  nor  I  know  any  thing  about.  Why 
throw  obstajles  in  the  way  of  its  defense  ?  Its  own  means  are 
superior  to  all  the  apparatus  of  your  laboratories.  Corvisart  can- 


144  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

didly  agreed  with  me  that  all  your  filthy  mixtures  are  good  for 
nothing.  Medicine  is  a  .collection  of  uncertain  prescriptions,  the 
results  of  which,  taken  collectively,  are  more  fatal  than  useful  to 
mankind.  Water,  air,  and  cleanliness  are  the  chief  articles  in 
my  pharmacopoaia." 

His  Memoirs,  dictated  to  Count  Montholon  and  Gen.  Gourgaud 
at  St.  Helena,  have  great  value,  after  all  the  deduction  that  it 
seems  is  to  be  made  from  them  on  account  of  his  known  disin- 
genuousness.  He  has  the  good-nature  of  strength  and  conscious 
superiority.  I  admire  his  simple,  clear  narrative  of  his  battles, 
—  good  as  Caesar  s,  —  his  good-natured  and  sufficiently  respectful 
account  of  Marshal  Wurmser  and  his  other  antagonists,  and  his 
own  equality  as  a  writer  to  his  varying  subject.  The  most  agree- 
able portion  is  the  campaign  in  Egypt. 

He  had  hours  of  thought  and  wisdom.  In  intervals  of  leisure, 
either  in  the  camp  or  the  palace,  Napoleon  appears  as  a  man  of 
genius,  directing  on  abstract  questions  the  native  appetite  for  truth, 
and  the  impatience  of  words,  he  was  wont  to  show  in  war.  He 
could  enjoy  every  play  of  invention,  a  romance,  a  Ion-mot,  as  well 
as  a  stratagem  in  a  campaign.  He  delighted  to  fascinate  Josephine 
and  her  ladies  in  a  dim-lighted  apartment  by  the  terrors  of  a  fic- 
tion, to  which  his  voice  and  dramatic  power  lent  every  addition. 

I  call  Napoleon  the  agent  or  attorney  of  the  middle  class  of 
modern  society ;  of  the  throng  who  fill  the  markets,  shops,  count- 
ing-houses, manufactories,  ships,  of  the  modern  world,  aiming  to 
be  rich.  He  was  the  agitator,  the  destroyer  of  prescription,  the 
internal  improver,  the  liberal,  the  radical,  the  inventor  of  means, 
the  opener  of  doors  and  markets,  the  subverter  of  monopoly  and 
abuse.  Of  course,  the  rich  and  aristocratic  did  not  like  him. 
England,  the  center  of  capital,  and  Borne  and  Austria,  centers 
of  tradition  and  genealogy,  opposed  him.  The  consternation  of 
the  dull  and  conservative  classes ;  the  terror  of  the  foolish  old  men 
and  old  women  of  the  Roman  conclave,  who  in  their  despair 
took  hold  of  any  thing,  and  would  cling  to  red-hot  iron;  the 
vain  attempts  of  statists  to  amuse  and  deceive  him,  of  the  Empe- 
ror of  Austria  to  bribe  him ;  and  the  instinct  of  the  young,  ar- 
dent, and  active  men  everywhere,  which  pointed  him  out  as  the 
giant  of  the  middle  class,  —  make  his  history  bright  and  command- 
ing. He  had  the  virtues  of  the  masses  of  his  constituents  :  he 
had  also  their  vices.  I  am  sorry  that  the  brilliant  picture  has  its 
reverse.  But  that  is  the  fatal  quality  which  we  discover  in  our 
pursuit  of  wealth,  that  it  is  treacherous,  and  is  bought  by  the 
breaking  or  weakening  of  the  sentiments ;  and  it  is  inevitable  that 
we  should  find  the  same  fact  in  the  history  of  this  champion,  who 
proposed  to  himself  simply  a  brilliant  career  without  any  stipula- 
tion or  scruple  concerning  the  means. 


RALPH   WALDO   EMERSON.  145 

Bonaparte  was  singularly  destitute  of  generous  sentiments. 
The  highest-placed  individual  in  the  most  cultivated  age  and 
population  of  the  world,  he  has  not  the  merit  of  common  truth 
and  honesty.  He  is  unjust  to  his  generals ;  egotistic  and  monop- 
olizing; meanly  stealing  the  credit  of  their  great  actions  from 
Kellermann,  from  Bernadotte ;  intriguing  to  involve  his  faithful 
Junot  in  hopeless  bankruptcy  in  order  to  drive  him  to  a  distance 
from  Paris,  because  the  familiarity  of  his  manners  offends  the 
new  pride  of  his  throne.  He  is  a  boundless  liar.  The  official 
paper,  his  "  Moniteurs,"  and  all  his  bulletins,  are  proverbs  for 
saying  what  lie  wished  to  be  believed;  and,  worse,  he  sat,  in 
his  premature  old  age,  in  his  lonely  island,  coldly  falsifying  facts 
and  dates  and  characters,  and  giving  to  history  a  theatrical  eclat. 
Like  all  Frenchmen,  he  has  a  passion  for  stage  effect.  Every 
action  that  breathes  of  generosity  is  poisoned  by  this  calculation. 
His  star,  his  love  of  glory,  his  doctrine  of  the  immortality  of  the 
soul,  are  all  French.  "  I  must  dazzle  and  astonish.  If  I  were  to 
give  the  liberty  of  the  press,  my  power  could  not  last  three  days." 
To  make  a  great  noise  is  his  favorite  design.  "  A  great  reputa- 
tion is  a  great  noise :  the  more  there  is  made,  the  farther  off  it  is 
heard.  Laws,  institutions,  monuments,  nations,  all  fall ;  but  the 
noise  continues,  and  resounds  in  after-ages."  His  doctrine  of  im- 
mortality is  simply  fame.  His  theory  of  influence  is  not  flatter- 
ing. "There  are  two  levers  for  moving  men,  —  interest  and 
fear.  Love  is  a  silly  infatuation,  depend  upon  it.  Friendship  is 
but  a  name.  I  love  nobody.  I  do  not  even  love  my  brothers : 
perhaps  Joseph  a  little,  from  habit,  and  because  he  is  my  elder; 
and  Duroc  —  I  love  him  too ;  but  why  ?  Because  his  character 
pleases  me :  he  is  stern  and  resolute,  and  I  believe  the  fellow 
never  shed  a  tear.  For  my  part,  I  know  very  well  that  I  have 
no  true  friends.  As  long  as  I  continue  to  be  what  I  am,  I  may 
have  as  many  pretended  friends  as  I  please.  Leave  sensibility 
to  women ;  but  men  should  be  firm  in  heart  and  purpose,  or  they 
should  have  nothing  to  do  with  war  arid  government."  He  was 
thoroughly  unscrupulous.  He  would  steal,  slander,  assassinate, 
drown,  and  poison,  as  his  interest  dictated.  He  had  no  gener- 
osity, but  mere  vulgar  hatred ;  he  was  intensely  selfish ;  he  was 
perfidious ;  he  cheated  at  cards  ;  he  was  a  prodigious  gossip,  and 
opened  letters,  and  delighted  in  his  infamous  police  ;  and  rubbed 
his  hands  with  joy  when  he  had  intercepted  some  morsel  of  intel- 
ligence concerning  the  men  and  women  about  him,  boasting  that 
"he  knew  every  thing;"  and  interfered  with  the  cutting  the 
dresses  of  the  women;  and  listened  after  the  hurrahs  and  the 
compliments  of  the  street  incognito.  His  manners  were  coarse. 
He  treated  women  with  low  familiarity.  He  had  the  habit  of 
pulling  their  ears  and  pinching  their  cheeks  when  he  was  in 
10 


146  .  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

good-humor,  and  of  pulling  the  ears  and  whiskers  of  men,  and  of 
striking  and  horse-play  with  them,  to  his  last  days.  It  does  not 
appear  that  he  listened  at  keyholes,  or  at  least  that  he  was 
caught  at  it.  In  short,  when  you  have  penetrated  through  all 
the  circles  of  power  and  splendor,  you  were  not  dealing  with  a 
gentleman  at  last,  but  with  an  impostor  and  a  rogue..  And  he 
fully  deserves  the  epithet  of  Jupiter  Scapin,  or  a  sort  of  Scamp 
Jupiter. 

In  describing  the  two  parties  into  which  modern  society  divides 
itself, — the  democrat  and  the  conservative,  —  I  said  Bonaparte 
represents  the  democrat,  or  the  party  of  men  of  business,  against 
the  stationary  or  conservative  part)'.  I  omitted  then  to  say 
what  is  material  to  the  statement;  namely,  that  these  two  parties 
differ  only  as  young  and  old.  The  democrat  is  a  young  conserva- 
tive :  the  conservative  is  an  old  democrat.  The  aristocrat  is  the 
democrat  ripe,  and  gone  to  seed,  because  both  parties  stand  on 
the  one  ground  of  the  supreme  value  of  property,  which  one  en- 
deavors to  get,  and  the  other  to  keep.  Bonaparte  may  be  said  to 
represent  the  whole  history  of  this  party,  —  its  youth  and  its  age ; 
yes,  and,  with  poetic  justice,  its  fate,  in  his  own.  The  counter- 
revolution, the  counter-party,  still  waits  for  its  organ  and  repre- 
sentative in  a  lover  and  a  man  of  truly  public  and  universal 
aims. 

Here  was  an  experiment,  under  the  most  favorable  conditions, 
of  the  powers  of  intellect  without  conscience.  Never  was  such  a 
leader  so  endowed  and  so  weaponed ;  never  leader  found  such 
aids  and  followers.  And  what  was  the  result  of  this  vast  talent 
and  power,  of  these  immense  armies,  burned  cities,  squandered 
treasures,  immolated  millions  of  men,  of  this  demoralized  Eu- 
rope ?  It  came  to  no  result.  All  passed  away  like  the  smoke  of 
his  artillery,  and  left  no  trace.  He  left  France  smaller,  poorer, 
feebler,  than  he  found  it;  and  the  whole  contest  for  freedom  was 
to  be  begun  again.  The  attempt  was,  in  principle,  suicidal. 
France  served  him  with  life  and  limb  and  estate  as  long  as  it 
could  identify  its  interest  with  him  :  but  when  men  saw  that  after 
victory  was  another  war ;  after  the  destruction  of  armies,  new 
conscriptions ;  and  they  who  had  toiled  so  desperately  were  never 
nearer  to  the  reward, — they  could  not  spend  what  they  had 
earned,  nor  repose  on  their  down-beds,  nor  strut  in  their  cha- 
teaux; they  deserted  him.  Men  found  that  his  absorbing  ego- 
tism was  deadly  to  all  other  men.  It  resembled  the  torpedo, 
which  inflicts  a  succession  of  shocks  on  any  one  who  takes  hold 
of  it,  producing  spasms  which  contract  the  muscles  of  the  hand, 
so  that  the  man  can  not  open  his  fingers  ;  and  the  animal  inflicts 
new  and  more  violent  shocks,  until  he  paralyzes  and  kills  his  vic- 
tim. So  this  exorbitant  egotist  narrowed,  impoverished,  and  ab- 


WASHINGTON  IRVING.  147 

sorbed  the  power  and  existence  of  those  who  served  him;  and 
the  universal  cry  of  France  and  of  Europe,  in  1814,  was,  "  Enough 
of  him  !  "  "  Assez  de  Bonaparte  !  " 

It  was  not  Bonaparte's  fault.  He  did  all  that  in  him  lay  to 
live  and  thrive  without  moral  principle.  It  was  the  nature  of 
things,  the  eternal  law  of  man  and  of  the  world,  which  balked 
and  ruined  him  ;  and  the  result  in  a  million  experiments  will  be 
the  same.  Every  experiment,  by  multitudes  or  by  individuals, 
that  has  a  sensual  and  selfish  aim,  will  fail.  The  pacific  Fourier 
will  be  as  inefficient  as  the  pernicious  Napoleon.  As  long  as  our 
civilization  is  essentially  one  of  property,  of  fences,  of  exclusive- 
ness,  it  will  be  mocked  by  delusions.  Our  riches  will  leave  us 
sick;  there  will  be  bitterness  in  our  laughter;  and  our  wine  will 
burn  our  mouth.  Only  that  good  profits  which  we  can  taste  with 
all  doors  open,  and  which  serves  all  men. 


WASHINGTON    IRVING. 

BORN  APRIL  3,  1783,  NEW-YORK  CITY. 
DIED  Nov.  28,  1859. 

Leaving  school  at  the  age  of  sixteen,  he  commenced  the  study  of  law;  but,  after 
having  traveled  in  Europe  for  his  health,  he  gave  up  the  law,  though  he  had  been 
admitted  to  the  bar,  and  devoted  himself  to  literary  pursuits.  Of  all  the  kind  re- 
marks that  all  the  critics  have  made  of  him,  we  will  quote  only  the  following  :  — 

"  But  allow  me  to  speak  what  I  honestly  feel.— 
To  a  true  poet-heart  add  the  fun  of  Dick  Steele; 
Throw  in  all  of  Addison,  minus  the  chill ; 
With  the  whole  of  that  partnership's  stock  and  good-will 
Mix  well;  and,  while  stirring,  hum  o'er  as  a  spell 
The  '  fine  old  English  gentleman ; '  simmer  it  well ; 
Sweeten  just  to  your  own  private  liking;  then  strain, 
That  only  the  finest  and  clearest  remain  ; 
Let  it  stand  out  of  doors  till  a  soul  it  receives 

From  the  warm,  lazy  sun,  loitering  down  through  green  leaves, — 
And  you'll  find  a  choice  nature,  not  wholly  deserving 
A  name  either  English  or  Yankee,  —just  Irving." 

James  Russell  LowelVs  Fable  for  the  Critics. 

PRINCIPAL  PRODUCTIONS. 

"Salmagundi;"  "  Sketch-Book ; "  "  History  of  New  York,  by  Diedrich  Knicker- 
bocker;" "Bracebridge  Hall;"  "Tales  of  a  Traveler;"  "Life  of  Columbus;" 
"Chronicles  of  Conquest  of  Grenada;"  "Alhambra;"  "Tour  of  the  Prairies;" 
"  Abbotsford  and  Newstead  Abbey;"  "Legends  of  the  Conquest  of  Spain;"  "  Asto- 
ria;" "The  Adventures  of  Captain  Bonneville;"  "Life  of  Goldsmith;"  •'  Lite  of 
Washington." 


148  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

RIP    VAN    WINKLE. 
A   POSTHUMOUS    WRITING    OF    DIETRICH    KNICKERBOCKER. 

[The  following  tale  was  found  among  the  papers  of  the  late  Diedrich  Knicker, 
bocker,  an  old  gentleman  of  New  York  who  was  very  curious  in  the  Dutch  history 
of  the  province,  and  the  manners  of  the  descendants  from  its  primitive  settlers. 

His  historical  researches,  however,  did  not  lie  so  much  among  books  as  among 
men;  for  the  former  are  lamentably  scanty  on  his  favorite  topic:  whereas  lie  found 
the  old  burghers,  and,  still  more,  their  wives,  rich  in  that  legendary  lore  so  invalua- 
ble to  true  history.  Whenever,  therefore,  he  happened  upon  a  genuine  Dutch  family, 
snugly  shut  up  in  its  low-roofed  farmhouse,  under  a  spreading  sycamore,  he  looked 
upon  it  as  a  little  clasped  volume  of  black-letter,  and  studied  it  with  the  zeal  of  a 
book-worm. 

The  result  of  all  these  researches  was  a  history  of  the  province  during  the  reign 
of  the  Dutch  governors,  which  he  published  some  years  since.  There  have  been 
various  opinions  as  to  the  literary  character  of  his  work;  and,  to  tell  the  truth,  it  is 
not  a  whit  better  than  it  should  be.  Its  chief  merit  is  its  scrupulous  accuracy, 
•which,  indeed,  was  a  little  questioned  on  its  first  appearance,  but  has  since  been 
completely  established;  and  it  is  now  admitted  into  all  historical  collections  as  a 
book  of  unquestionable  authority. 

The  old  gentleman  died  shortly  after  the  publication  of  his  work;  and,  now  that 
he  is  dead  and  gone,  it  can  not  do  much  harm  to  his  memory  to  say  that  his  time 
might  have  been  much  better  employed  in  weightier  labors.  He,  however,  was  apt 
to  ride  his  hobby  his  own  way:  and  though  it  did  now  and  then  kick  up  the  dust  a 
little  in  the  eyes  of  his  neighbors,  and  grieve  the  spirit  of  some  friends  for  whom  he 
felt  the  truest  deference  and  affection,  yet  his  errors  and  follies  are  remembered 
"more  in  sorrow  than  in  anger;"  and  it  begins  to  be  suspected  that  he  never  in- 
tended to  injure  or  offend.  But,  however  his  memory  may  be  appreciated  by  critics, 
it  is  still  held  dear  by  many  folks  whose  good  opinion  is  well  worth  having;  particu- 
larly by  certain  biscuit-bakers,  who  have  gone  so  far  as  to  imprint  his  likeness  on 
their  New- Year  cakes,  and  have  thus  given  him  a  chance  for  immortality  almost 
equal  to  the  being  stamped  on  a  Waterloo  medal  or  a  Queen  Anne's  farthing.] 

WHOEVER  has  made  a  voyage  up  the  Hudson  must  remember 
the  Gatskill  Mountains.  They  are  a  dismembered  branch  of  the 
great  Appalachian  family,  and  are  seen  away  to  the  west  of  the 
river,  swelling  up  to  a  noble  hight,  and  lording  it  over  the  sur- 
rounding country.  Every  change  of  season,  every  change  of 
weather,  indeed,  every  hour  of  the  day,  produces  some  change  in 
the  magical  hues  and  shapes  of  these  mountains ;  and  they  are 
regarded  by  all  the  good-wives  far  and  near  as  perfect  barome- 
ters. When  the  weather  is  fair  and  settled,  they  are  clothed  in 
blue  and  purple,  and  print  their  bold  outlines  on  the  clear  evening 
sky ;  but  sometimes,  when  the  rest  of  the  landscape  is  cloudless, 
they  will  gather  a  hood  of  gray  vapors  about  their  summits,  which, 
in  the  last  rays  of  the  setting  sun,  will  glow  and  light  up  like  a 
crown  of  glory. 


WASHINGTON  IRVING.  140 

At  the  foot  of  these  fairy  mountains,  the  voyager  may  have 
descried  the  light  smoke  curling  up  from  a  village,  whose  shingle- 
roofs. gleam  among  the  trees,  just  where  the  blue  tints  -of  the  up- 
land melt  away  into  the  fresh  green  of  the  nearer  landscape.  It 
is  a  little  village  of  great  antiquity,  having  been  founded  by  some 
of  the  Dutch  colonists  in  the  early  times  of  the  province,  — just 
about  the  beginning  of  the  government  of  the  good  Peter  Stuy- 
vesant,  (may  he  rest  in  peace  !)  and  there  were  some  of  the  houses 
of  the  original  settlers  standing  within  a  few  years,  built  of  small 
yellow  bricks  brought  from  Holland,  having  latticed  windows,  and 
gable  fronts  surrounded  with  weathercocks. 

In  that  same  village,  and  in  one  of  these  very  houses  (which, 
to  tell  the  precise  truth,  was  sadly  time-worn  and  weather-beaten), 
there  lived  many  years  since,  while  the  country  was  yet  a  prov- 
ince of  Great  Britain,  a  simple,  good-natured  fellow,  of  the  name 
of  Rip  Van  Winkle.  He  was  a  descendant  of  the  Van  Winkles 
who  figured  so  gallantly  in  the  chivalrous  days  of  Peter  Stuyve- 
sant,  and  accompanied  him  to  the  siege  of  Fort  Christina.  He 
inherited,  however,  but  little  of  the  martial  character  of  his  an- 
cestors. I  have  observed  that  he  was  a  simple,  good-natured 
man.  He  was,  moreover,  a  kind  neighbor,  an  obedient,  hen- 
pecked husband.  Indeed,  to  the  latter  circumstance  might  be 
owing  that  meekness  of  spirit  which  gained  him  such  universal 
popularity ;  for  those  men  are  most  apt  to  be  obsequious  and  con- 
ciliating abroad  who  are  under  the  discipline  of  shrews  at  home. 
Their  tempers,  doubtless,  are  rendered  pliant  and  malleable  in  the 
fiery  furnace  of  domestic  tribulation  ;  and  a  curtain-lecture  is 
worth  all  the  sermons  in  the  world  for  teaching  the  virtues  of  pa- 
tience and  long-suffering.  A  termagant  wife  may  therefore,  in 
some  respects,  be  considered  a  tolerable  blessing ;  and,  if  so,  Rip 
Van  Winkle  was  thrice  blessed. 

Certain  it  is  that  he  was  a  great  favorite  among  all  the  good- 
wives  of  the  village,  who,  as  usual  with  the  amiable  sex,  took  his 
part  in  all  family  squabbles,  and  never  failed,  whenever  they 
talked  those  matters  over  in  their  evening  gossipings,  to  lay  all 
the  blame  on  Dame  Van  Winkle.  The  children  of  the  village, 
too,  would  shout  with  joy  whenever  he  approached.  He  assisted 
at  their  sports,  made  their  playthings,  taught  them  to  fly  kites 
and  shoot  marbles,  and  told  them  long  stories  of  ghosts,  witches, 
and  Indians.  Whenever  he  went  dodging  about  the  village,  he 
was  surrounded  by  a  troop  of  them,  hanging  on  his  skirts,  clam- 
bering on  his  back,  and  playing  a  thousand  tricks  on  him  with 
impunitjr ;  and  not  a  dog  would  bark  at  him  throughout  the  neigh- 
borhood. 

The  great  error  in  Rip's  composition  was  an  insuperable  aver- 
sion to  all  kinds  of  profitable  labor.  It  could  not  be  from  the 


1<">0  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

want  of  assiduity  or  perseverance ;  for  he  would  sit  on  a  wet  rock, 
with  a  rod  as  long  and  heavy  as  a  Tartar's  lance,  and  fish  all  day, 
without  a  murmur,  even  though  he  should  not  be  encouraged  by 
a  single  nibble.  He  would  carry  a  fowling-piece  on  his  shoulder 
for  hours  together,  trudging  through  woods  and  swamps,  and  up 
hill  and  down  dale,  to  shoot  a  few  squirrels  or  wild-pigeons.  He 
would  never  refuse  to  assist  a  neighbor,  even  in  the  roughest  toil ; 
and  was  a  foremost  man  at  all  country  frolics  for  husking  corn,  or 
building  stone  fences.  The  women  of  the  village,  too,  used  to 
employ  him  to  run  their  errands,  and  to  do  such  little  odd  jobs  as 
their  less-obliging  husbands  would  not  do  for  them.  In  a  word, 
Rip  was  ready  to  attend  to  anybody's  business  but  his  own  ;  but 
as  to  doing  family  duty,  and  keeping  his  farm  in  order,  he  found 
it  impossible. 

In  fact,  he  declared  it  was  of  no  use  to  work  on  his  farm  :  it 
was  the  most  pestilent  little  piece  of  ground  in  the  whole  coun- 
try :  every  thing  about  it  went  wrong,  and  would  go  wrong,  in 
spite  of  him.  His  fences  were  continually  falling  to  pieces;  his 
cows  would  either  go  astray,  or  get  among  the  cabbages;  weeds 
were  sure  to  grow  quicker  in  his  fields  than  anywhere  else ;  the 
rain  alwa}Ts  made  a  point  of  setting  in  just  as  he  had  some  out- 
door work  to  do :  so  that  though  his  patrimonial  estate  had  dwin- 
dled away  under  his  management,  acre  by  acre, .until  there  was 
little  more  left  than  a  mere  patch  of  Indian  corn  and  potatoes, 
yet  it  was  the  worst  conditioned  farm  in  the  neighborhood. 

His  children,  too,  were  as  ragged  and  wild  as  if  they  belonged 
to  nobody.  His  son  Rip,  an  urchin  begotten  in  his  own  likeness, 
promised  to  inherit  the  habits,  with  the  old  clothes,  of  his  father. 
He  was  generally  seen  trooping  like  a  colt  at  his  mother's  heels, 
equipped  in  a  pair  of  his  father's  cast-oif  galligaskins,  which  he 
had  much  ado  to  hold  up  with  one  hand,  as  a  fine  lady  does  her 
train  in  bad  weather. 

Rip  Van  Winkle,  however,  was  one  of  those  happy  mortals,  of 
foolish,  well-oiled  dispositions,  who  take  the  world  easy;  eat  white 
bread  or  brown,  whichever  can  be  got  with  least  thought  or 
trouble ;  and  would  rather  starve  on  a  penny  than  work  for  a 
pound.  If  left  to  himself,  he  would  have  whistled  life  away  in 
perfect  contentment ;  but  his  wife  kept  continually  dinning  in  his 
ears  about  his  idleness,  his  carelessness,  and  the  ruin  he  was 
bringing  on  his  family.  Morning,  noon,  and  night,  her  tongue 
was  incessantly  going  ;  and  every  thing  he  said  or  did  was  sure  to 
produce  a  torrent  of  household  eloquence.  Rip  had  but  one  way 
of  replying  to  all  lectures  of  the  kind;  and  that,  by  frequent  use, 
had  grown  into  a  habit.  He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  shook  his 
head,  cast  up  his  eyes,  but  said  nothing.  This,  however,  always 
provoked  a  fresh  volley  from  his  wife :  so  that  he  was  fain  to  draw 


WASHINGTON   IRVING.  151 

oT  his  forces,  and  take   to  the  outside  of  the  house,  —  the  only 
side  which,  in  truth,  belongs  to  a  hen-pecked  husband. 

Kip's  sole  domestic  adherent  was  his  dog  Wolf,  who  was  as 
much  hen-pecked  as  his  master;  for  Dame  Van  Winkle  regarded 
them  as  companions  in  idleness,  and  even  looked  upon  Wolf  with 
an  evil  eye,  as  the  cause  of  his  master's  going  so  often  astray.. 
True  it  is,  in  all  points  of  spirit  befitting  an  honorable  dog,  he 
was  as  courageous  an  animal  as  ever  scoured  the  woods ;  but  what 
courage  can  withstand  the  ever-during  and  all-besetting  terrors 
of  a  woman's  tongue  ?  The  moment  Wolf  entered  the  house,  his 
crest  fell,  his  tail  drooped  to  the  ground,  or  curled  between  his 
legs;  he  sneaked  about  with  a  gallows-air,  casting  many  a  side- 
long glance  at  Dame  Van  Winkle ;  and,  at  the  least  flourish  of  a 
broomstick  or  ladle,  he  would  fly  to  the  door  with  yelping  precipi- 
tation. 

Times  grew  worse  and  worse  with  Kip  Van  Winkle  as  years  of 
matrimony  rolled  on.  A  tart  temper  never  mellows  with  age,  and 
a  sharp  tongue  is  the  only  edged  tool  that  grows  keener  with  con- 
stant use.  For  a  long  while,  he  used  to  console  himself,  when 
driven  from  home,. by  frequenting  a  kind  of  perpetual  club  of  the 
sages,  philosophers,  and  other  idle  personages  of  the  village, 
which  held  its  sessions  on  a  bench  before  a  small  .inn  designated 
by  a  rubicund  portrait  of  his  Majesty  George  the  Third.  Here 
they  used  to  sit  in  the  shade  through  a  long,  lazy  summer's  day, 
talking  listlessly  over  village  gossip,  or  telling  endless  sleepy 
stories  about  nothing.  But  it  would  have  been  worth  any  states- 
man's money  to  have  heard  the  profound  discussions  that  some- 
times took  place  when  by  chance  an  old  newspaper  fell  into  their 
hands  from  some  passing  traveler.  How  solemnly  they  would 
listen  to  the  contents  as  drawled  out  by  Derrick  Van  Bummel, 
the  schoolmaster!  —  a  dapper,  learned  little  man,  who  was  not  to 
be  daunted  by  the  most  gigantic  word  in  the  dictionary;  and  how 
sagely  they  would  deliberate  upon  public  events  some  months 
after  they  had  taken  place  ! 

The  opinions  of  this  junto  were  completely  controlled  by  Nich- 
olas Vedder,  a  patriarch  of  the  village,  and  landlord  of  the  inn; 
at  the  door  of  which  he  took  his  seat  from  morning  till  night, 
just  moving  sufficiently  to  avoid  the  sun,  and  keep  in  the  shade 
of  a  large  tree :  so  that  the  neighbors  could  tell  the  hour  by  his 
movements  as  accurately  as  by  a  sun-dial.  It  is  true,  he  was  rarely 
heard  to  speak,  but  smoked  his  pipe  incessantly.  His  adherents, 
however  (for  every  great  man  has  his  adherents),  perfectly  under- 
stood him,  and  knew  how  to  gather  his  opinions.  When  any 
thing  that  was  read  or  related  displeased  him,  he  was  observed  to 
smoke  his  pipe  vehemently,  and  to  send  forth  short,  frequent,  'and 
angry  puffs;  but,  when  pleased,  he  would  inhale  the  smoke  slowly 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

and  tranquilly,  and  emit  it  in  light  and  placid  clouds ;  and  some- 
times, taking  the  pipe  from  his  mouth,  and  letting  the  fragrant 
vapor  curl  about  his  nose,  would  gravely  nod  his  head  in  token  of 
perfect  approbation. 

From  even  this  stronghold  the  unlucky  Rip  was  at  length 
routed  by  his  termagant  wife,  who  would  suddenly  break  in  upon 
the  tranquillity  of  the  assemblage,  and  call  the  members  all  to 
naught.  Xor  was  that  august  personage,  Nicholas  Vedder  himself, 
sacred  from  the  daring  tongue  of  this  terrible  virago,  who  charged 
him  outright  with  encouraging  her  husband  in  habits  of  idleness. 

Poor  Rip  was  at  last  reduced  almost  to  despair ;  and  his  only 
alternative  to  escape  from  the  labor  of  the  farm  and  clamor  of  his 
wife  was  to  take  gun  in  hand,  and  stroll  away  into  the  woods. 
Here  he  would  sometimes  seat  himself  at  the  foot  of  a  tree,  and 
share  the  contents  of  his  wallet  with  Wolf,  with  whom  he  sympa- 
thized as  a  fellow-sufferer  in  persecution.  "Poor  Wolf!"  he  would 
say :  "  thy  mistress  loads  thee  a  dog's  life  of  it.  But  never  mind, 
my  lad:  whilst  I  live,  thou  shalt  never  want  a  friend  to  stand  by 
thee."  Wolf  would  wag  his  tail;  look  wistfully  in  his  master's 
face ;  and,  if  dogs  can  feel  pity,  I  verily  believe  he  reciprocated 
the  sentiment  with  all  his  heart. 

In  a  long  ramble  of  the  kind  on  a  fine  autumnal  day,  Rip  had 
unconsciously  scrambled  to  one  of  the  highest  parts  of  the  Cats- 
kill  Mountains.  He  was  after  his  favorite  sport  of  squirrel- 
shooting;  and  the  still  solitudes  had  echoed  with  the  reports  of  his 
gun.  Panting  and  fatigued,  he  threw  himself,  late  in  the  after- 
noon, on  a  green  kuoll,  covered  with  mountain-herbage,  that 
crowned  the  brow  of  a  precipice.  From  an  opening  between  the 
trees  he  could  overlook  all  the  lower  country  for  many  a  mile  of 
rich  woodland.  He  saw  at  a  distance  the  lordly  Hudson,  far,  far 
below  him,  moving  on  its  silent  but  majestic  course,  with  the  re- 
flection of  a  purple  cloud,  or  the  sail  of  a  lagging  bark,  here  and 
there  sleeping  on  its  glassy  bosom,  and  at  last  losing  itself  in  the 
blue  highlands. 

On  the  other  side,  he  looked  down  into  a  deep  mountain-glen, 
wild,  lonely,  and  shagged ;  the  bottom  filled  with  fragments  from 
the  impending  cliffs,  and  scarcely  lighted  by  the  reflected  rays  of 
the  setting  sun.  For  some  time,  Rip  lay  musing  on  this  scene. 
Evening  was  gradually  advancing:  the  mountains  began  to  throw 
their  long  blue  shadows  over  the  valleys.  He  saw  that  it  would  be 
dark  long  before  he  could  reach  the  village  ;  and  he  heaved  a  heavy 
sigh  when  he  thought  of  encountering  the  terrors  of  Dame  Van 
Winkle. 

As  he  was  about  to  descend,  he  heard  a  voice  from  a  distance 
hallooing,  "Rip  Van  Winkle,  Rip  Van  Winkle!"  He  looked 
round,  but  could  see  nothing  but  a  crow  winging  its  solitary  flight 


WASHINGTON    IRVING.  153 

across  the  mountain.  He  thought  his  fancy  must  have  deceived 
him,  and  turned  again  to  descend ;  when  he  heard  the  same  cry 
ring  through  the  still  evening  air,  "  Rip  Van  Winkle,  Rip  Van 
Winkle ! "  and  at  the  same  time  Wolf  bristled  up  his  back,  and, 
giving  a  low  growl,  skulked  to  his  master's  side,  looking  fearfully 
down  into  the  glen.  Rip  now  felt  a  vague  apprehension  stealing 
over  him.  He  looked  anxiously  in  the  same  direction,  and  per- 
ceived a  strange  figure  slowly  toiling  up  the  rocks,  and  bending 
under  the  weight  of  something  he  carried  on  his  back.  He  was 
surprised  to  see  any  human  being  in  this  lonely  and  unfrequented 
place ;  but,  supposing  it  to  be  some  one  of  the  neighborhood  in 
need  of  his  assistance,  he  hastened  down  to  yield  it.  * 

On  nearer  approach,  he  was  still  more  surprised  at  the  singular- 
ity of  the  stranger's  appearance.  He  was  a  short,  square-built  old 
fellow,  with  thick,  bushy  hair,  and  a  grizzled  beard.  His  dress 
was  of  the  antique  Dutch  fashion,  —  a  cloth  jerkin  strapped  round 
the  waist ;  several  pairs  of  breeches  (the  outer  one  of  ample  volume), 
decorated  with  rows  of  buttons  down  the  sides,  and  bunches  at 
the  knees.  He  bore  on  his  shoulder  a  stout  keg,  that  seemed 
full  of  liquor;  and  made  signs  for  Rip  to  approach,  and  assist  him 
with  the  load.  Though  rather  shy  and  distrustful  of  this  new 
acquaintance,  Rip  complied  with  his  usual  alacrity  ;  and,  mutually 
relieving  one  another,  they  clambered  up  a  narrow  gully,  appar- 
ently the  dry  bed  of  a  mountain-torrent.  As  they  ascended,  Rip 
every  now  and  then  heard  long,  rolling  peals,  like  distant  thun- 
der, that  seemed  to  issue  out  of  a  deep  ravine,  or  rather  cleft, 
between  lofty  rocks,  toward  which  their  rugged  path  conducted. 
He  paused  for  an  instant ;  but,  supposing  it  to  be  the  muttering  of 
one  of  those  transient  thunder-showers  which  often  take  place  in 
mountain  bights,  he  proceeded.  Passing  through  the  ravine,  they 
came  to  a  hollow,  like  a  small  amphitheater,  surrounded  by  per- 
pendicular precipices,  over  the  brinks  of  which  impending  trees 
shot  their  branches,  so  that  you  only  caught  glimpses  of  the  azure 
sky  and  the  bright  evening  cloud.  During  the  whole  time,  Rip 
and  his  companion  had  labored  on  in  silence ;  for  though  the  for- 
mer marveled  greatly  what  could  be  the  object  of  carrying  a  keg 
of  liquor  up  this  wild  mountain,  yet  there  was  something 
strange  and  incomprehensible  about  the  unknown,  that  inspired 
awe,  and  checked  familiarity. 

On  entering  the  amphitheater,  new  objects  of  wonder  pre- 
sented themselves.  On  a  level  spot  in  the  center  was  a  company 
of  odd -looking  personages  playing  at  ninepins.  They  were 
dressed  in  a  quaint,  outlandish  fashion  :  some  wore  short  doublets; 
others  jerkins,  with  long  knives  in  their  belts ;  and  most  of  them 
had  enormous  breeches,  of  similar  style  with  that  of  the  guide's. 
Their  visages,  too,  were  peculiar :  oue  had  a  large  beard,  broad 


154  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

face,  and  small,  piggish  eyes ;  the  face  of  another  seemed  to  con- 
sist entirely  of  nose,  and  was  surmounted  by  a  white  sugar-loaf 
hat,  set  oft'  with  a  little  red  cock's  tail. ,  They  all  had  beards,  of 
various  shapes  and  colors.  There  was  one  who  seemed  to  be  the 
commander.  He  was  a  stout  old  gentleman,  with  a  weather- 
beaten  countenance  :  he  wore  a  laced  doublet,  broad  belt  and 
hanger,  high-crowned  hat  and  feather,  red  stockings,  and  high- 
heeled  shoes,  with  roses  on  them.  The  whole  group  reminded 
Rip  of  the  figures  in  an  old  Flemish  painting  in  the  parlor  of 
Dominie  Van  Shaick,  the  village  parson,  and  which  had  been 
brought  over  from  Holland  at  the  time  of  the  settlement. 

What  seemed  particularly  odd  to  Rip  was,  that  though  these 
folks  were  evidently  amusing  themselves,  yet  they  maintained  the 
gravest  faces,  the  most  mysterious  silence,  and  were,  withal,  the 
most  melancholy  party  of  pleasure  he  had  ever  witnessed.  Noth- 
ing interrupted  the  stillness  of  the  scene  but  the  noise  of  the 
balls,  which,  whenever  they  were  rolled,  echoed  along  the  moun- 
tains like  rumbling  peals  of  thunder. 

As  Rip  and  his  companion  approached  them,  they  suddenly 
desisted  from  their  play,  and  stared  at  him  with  such  fixed,  statue- 
like  gaze,  and  such  strange,  uncouth,  lack-luster  countenances, 
that  his  heart  turned  within  him,  and  his  knees  smote  together. 
His  companion  now  emptied  the  contents  of  the  keg  into  large 
flagons,  and  made  signs  to  him  to  wait  on  the  company.  He 
obeyed  witli  fear  and  trembling.  They  quaffed  the  liquor  in  pro- 
found silence,  and  then  returned  to  their  game. 

13y  degrees,  Rip's  awe  and  apprehension  subsided.  He  even 
ventured,  when  no  eye  was  fixed  upon  him,  to  taste  the  beverage, 
which  he  found  had  much  of  the  flavor  of  excellent  Hollands. 
He  was  naturally  a  thirsty  soul,  and  was  soon  tempted  to  repeat 
the  draught.  One  taste  provoked  another ;  and  he  reiterated  his 
visits  to  the  flagon  so  often,  that  at  length  his  senses  were  over- 
powered, his  eyes  swain  in  his  head,  his  head  gradually  declined, 
and  he  fell  into  a  deep  sleep. 

On  waking,  he  found  himself  on  the  green  knoll  whence  he  had 
first  seen  the  old  man  of  the  glen.  He  rubbed  his  eyes.  It  was 
a  bright,  sunny  morning.  The  birds  were  hopping  and  twitter- 
ing among  the  bushes  ;  and  the  eagle  was  wheeling  aloft,  and 
breasting  the  pure  mountain-breeze.  "  Surely,"  thought  Rip,  "  I 
have  not  slept  here  all  night."  He  recalled  the  occurrences 
before  he  fell  asleep,  —  the  strange  man  with  a  keg  of  liquor, 
the  niDuntain-ravine,  the  wild  retreat  among  the  rocks,  the  woe- 
begone party  at  ninepins,  the  flagon.  "Oh  that  flagon!  that 
wicked  flagon ! w  thought  Rip.  "What  excuse  shall  I  make  to 
Dame  Van  Winkle?" 

He  looked  round  for  his  gun  ;  but  in  place  of  the  clean,  well- 


WASHINGTON  IRVING.  155 

oiled  fowling-piece,  he  found  an  old  firelock  lying  by  him,  the 
-barrel  incrusted  with  rust,  the  lock  falling  off,  and  the  stock 
worm-eaten.  He  now  suspected  that  the  grave  roisters  of  the 
mountain  had  put  a  trick  upon  him,  and,  having  dosed  him  with 
liquor,  had  robbed  him  of  his  gun.  Wolf,  too,  had  disappeared ; 
but  he  might  have  strayed  away  after  a  squirrel  or  partridge. 
He  whistled  after  him,  and  shouted  his  name;  but  all  in  vain. 
The  echoes  repeated  his  whistle  and  shout ;  but  no  dog  was  to  be 
seen. 

He  determined  to  revisit  the  scene  of  the  last  evening's  gam- 
bol, and,  if  he  met  with  any  of  the  party,  to  demand  his  dog  and 
gun.  As  he  rose  to  walk,  he  found  himself  stiff  in  the  joints,* 
and  wanting  in  his  usual  activity.  "These  mountain-beds  do 
not  agree  with  me,"  thought  Kip ;  "  and,  if  this  frolic  should  lay 
me  up  with  a  fit  of  the  rheumatism,  I  shall  have  a  blessed  time 
with  Dame  Van  Winkle."  With  some  difficulty  he  got  down 
into  the  glen.  He  found  the  gully  up  which  lie  and  his  compan- 
ion had  ascended  the  preceding  evening;  but,  to  his  astonishment, 
a  mountain-stream  was  now  foaming  down  it,  leaping  from  rock 
to  rock,  and  filling  the  glen  with  babbling  murmurs.  He,  how- 
ever, made  shift  to  scramble  up  its  sides,  working  his  toilsome 
way  through  thickets  of  birch,  sassafras,  and  witch-hazel,  and 
sometimes  tripped  up  or  entangled  by  the  wild  grape-vines  that 
twisted  their  coils  or  tendrils  from  tree  to  tree,  and  spread  a  kind 
of  network  in  his  path. 

At  length,  he  reached  to  where  the  ravine  had  opened  through 
the  cliffs  to  the  amphitheater ;  but  no  traces  of  such  opening  re- 
mained. The  rocks  presented  a  high,  impenetrable  wall,  over 
which  the  torrent  came  tumbling  in  a  sheet  of  feathery  foam,  and 
fell  into  a  broad,  deep  basin,  black  from  the  shadows  of  the  sur- 
rounding forest.  Here,  then,  poor  Rip  was  brought  to  a  stand. 
He.  again  called  and  whistled  after  his  dog.  He  was  only  an- 
swered by  the  cawing  of  a  flock  of  idle  crows,  sporting  high  in 
air  about  a  dry  tree  that  overhung  a  sunny  precipice,  and  who, 
secure  in  their  elevation,  seemed  to  look  down  and  scoff  at  the 
poor  man's  perplexities.  What  was  to  be  done?  The  morning 
was  passing  away,  and  B-ip  felt  famished  for  want  of  his  break- 
fast. He  grieved  to  give  up  his  dog  and  gun ;  he  dreaded  to 
meet  his  wife :  but  it  would  not  do  to  starve  among  the  moun- 
tains. He  shook  his  head,  shouldered  the  rusty  firelock,  and, 
with  a  heart  full  of  trouble  and  anxiety,  turned  his  steps  home- 
ward. 

As  he  approached  the  village,  he  met  a  number  of  people,  but 
none  whom  he  knew;  which  somewhat  surprised  him,  for  he  had 
thought  himself  acquainted  with  every  one  in  the  country  round. 
Their  dress,  too,  was  of  a  different  fashion  from  that  to  which  he 


156  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

was  accustomed.  They  all  stared  at  him  with  equal  marks  of 
surprise,  and,  whenever  they  cast  their  eyes  upon  him,  invariably 
stroked  their  chins.  The  constant  recurrence  of  this  gesture  in- 
duced Rip  involuntarily  to  do  the  same ;  when,  to  his  astonish- 
ment, he  found  his  beard  had  grown  a  foot  long. 

He  had  now  entered  the  skirts  of  the  village.  A  troop  of 
strange  children  ran  at  his  heels,  hooting  after  him,  and  pointing 
at  his  gray  beard.  The  dogs  too,  not  one  of  which  he  recognized 
for  ah  old  acquaintance,  barked  at  him  as  he  passed.  The  very 
village  was  altered:  it  was  larger  and  more  populous.  There 
were  rows  of  houses  which  he  had  never  seen  before ;  and  those 
which  had  been  his  familiar  haunts  had  disappeared.  Strange 
names  were  over  the  doors,  strange  faces  at  the  windows;  every 
thing  was  strange.  His  mind  now  misgave  him :  he  began  to 
doubt  whether  both  he  and  the  world  around  him  were  not  be- 
witched. Surely  this  was  his  native  village,  which  he  had  left 
but  the  day  before.  There  stood  the  Catskill  Mountains:  there 
ran  the  silver  Hudson  at  a  distance ;  there  was  every  hill  and 
dale  precisely  as  it  had  always  been.  Kip  was  sorely  perplexed. 
"  That  flagon  last  night,"  thought  he,  "  has  addled  niy  poor  head 
sadly." 

It  was  with  some  difficulty  that  he  found  the  way  to  his  own 
house,  which  he  approached  with  silent  awe,  expecting  every  mo- 
ment to  hear  the  shrill  voice  of  Dame  Van  Winkle.  He  found 
the  house  gone  to  decay,  the  roof  fallen  in,  the  windows  shat- 
tered, and  the  doors  off  the  hinges.  A  half-starved  dog  that 
looked  like  Wolf  was  skulking  about  it.  Rip  called  him  by 
name;  but  the  cur  snarled,  showed  his  teeth,  and  passed  on. 
This  was  an  unkind  cut  indeed.  "My  very  dog,"  sighed  poor 
Rip,  "  has  forgotten  me  !  " 

He  entered  the  house,  which,  to  tell  the  truth,  Dame  Van 
Winkle  had  always  kept  in  neat  order.  It  was  empty,  forlorn, 
and  apparently  abandoned.  This  desolateness  overcame  all  his 
connubial  fears.  He  called  loudly  for  his  wife  and  children. 
The  lonely  chambers  rang  for  a  moment  with  his  voice ;  and  then 
all  again  was  silence. 

He  now  hurried  forth,  and  hastened  to  his  old  resort,  —  the 
village  inn ;  but  it,  too,  was  gone.  A  large,  rickety  wooden 
building  stood  in  its  place,  with  great  gaping  windows  (some  of 
them  broken,  and  mended  with  old  hats  and  petticoats)  ;  and  over 
the  door  was  painted,  "  The  Union  Hotel,  by  Jonathan  Doolittle." 
Instead  of  the  great  tree  that  used  to  shelter  the  quiet  little 
Dutch  inn  of  yore,  there  now  was  reared  a  tall,  naked  pole,  with 
something  on  the  top  that  looked  like  a  red  nightcap;  and  from 
it  was  fluttering  a  flag,  on  which  was  a  singular  assemblage  of 
stars  and  stripes.  All  this  was  strange  and  incomprehensible. 


WASHINGTON  IRVING.  157 

He  recognized  on  the  sign,  however,  the  ruby  face  of  King 
George,  under  which  he  had  smoked  so  many  a  peaceful  pipe  ;  but 
even  this  was  singularly  metamorphosed.  The  red  coat  was 
changed  for  one  of  blue  and  buff;  a  sword  was  held  in  the  hand 
instead  of  a  scepter ;  the  head  was  decorated  with  a  cocked  hat ; 
and  underneath  was  painted  in  large  characters,  GEN.  WASH- 
INGTON. 

There  was,  as  usual,  a  crowd  of  folk  about  the  door,  but  none 
that  Hip  recollected.  The  very  character  of  the  people  seemed 
changed.  There  was  a  busy,  bustling,  disputatious  tone  about 
it,  instead  of  the  accustomed  phlegm  and  drowsy  tranquillity. 
He  looked  in  vain  for  the  sage  Nicholas  Vedder,  with  his  broad 
face,  double  chin,  and  fair  long  pipe,  uttering  clouds  of  tobacco- 
smoke  instead  of  idle  speeches ;  or  Van  Burnmel,  the  school- 
master, doling-  forth  the  contents  of  an  ancient  newspaper.  In 
place  of  these,  a  lean,  bilious-looking  fellow,  with  his  pockets 
full  of  hand-bills,  was  haranguing  vehemently  about  rights  of 
citizens,  elections,  members  of  Congress,  liberty,  Bunker's  Hill, 
heroes  of  seventy-six,  and  other  words,  which  were  a  perfect 
Babylonish  jargon  to  the  bewildered  Van  Winkle. 

The  appearance  of  Rip,  with  his  long,  grizzled  beard,  his  rusty 
fowling-piece,  his  uncouth  dress,  and  an  army  of  \vomen  and 
children  at  his  heels,  soon  attracted  the  attention  of  the  tavern 
politicians.  They  crowded  round  him,  eying  him  from  head  to 
foot  with  great  curiosity.  The  orator  bustled  up  to  him,  and, 
drawing  him  partly  aside,  inquired  on  which  side  he  voted. 
Rip  stared  in  vacant  stupidity.  Another  short  but  busy  little 
fellow  pulled  him  by  the  arm,  and,  rising  on  tiptoe,  inquired  in 
his  ear  whether  he  was  Federal  or  Democrat.  Rip  was 
equally  at  a  loss  to  comprehend  the  question ;  when  a  knowing, 
self-important  old  gentleman,  in  a  sharp  cocked  hat,  made  his 
way  through  the  crowd,  putting  them  t\>  the  right  and  left 
with  his  elbows  as  he  passed,  and  planting  himself  before  Van 
Winkle,  with  one  arm  akimbo,  the  other  resting  on  his  cane,  his 
keen  eyes  and  sharp  hat  penetrating,  as  it  were,  into  his  very  soul, 
demanded  in  an  austere  tone  what  brought  him  to  the  election 
with  a  gun  on  his  shoulder,  and  a  mob  at  his  heels  ;  and  whether 
he  meant  to  breed  a  riot  in  the  village.  "  Alas  !  gentlemen," 
cried  Rip,  somewhat  dismayed,  "  I  am  a  poor,  quiet  man ;  a 
native  of  the  place  ;  and  a  loyal  subject  of  the  king,  God  bless 
him ! " 

Here  a  general  shout  burst  from  the  bystanders,  —  "A  Tory,  a 
Tory,  a  spy,  a  refugee  !  Hustle  him  !  Away  with  him  !"  It  was 
with  great  difficulty  that  the  self-important  man  in  the  cocked 
hat  restored  order ;  and,  having  assumed  a  tenfold  austerity 
of  brow,  demanded  again  of  the  unknown  culprit  what  he  came 


158  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

there  for,  and  whom  he  was  seeking.  The  poor  man  humbly 
assured  him  that  he  meant  110  harm,  but  merely  came  there  in 
search  of  some  of  his  neighbors  who  ,used  to  keep  about  the 
tavern. 

"  Well,  who  are  they  ?     Name  them." 

Rip  bethought  himself  a  moment,  and  inquired,  "Where's 
Nicholas  Vedder  ?  " 

There  was  a  silence  for  a  little  while ;  when  an  old  man  replied 
in  a  thin,  piping  voice,  "Nicholas  Vedder!  why,  he  is  dead  and 
gone  these  eighteen  years  !  There  was  a  wooden  tombstone  in 
the  churchyard  that  used  to  tell  all  about  him ;  but  that's  rotten 
and  gone  too." 

"  Where's  Brom  Dutcher  ?  " 

"  Oh !  he  went  oft*  to  the  army  in  the  beginning  of  the  war. 
Some  say  he  was  killed  at  the  storming  of  Stony  Point ;  others 
say  he  was  drowned  in  a  squall  at  the  foot  of  Antony's  Nose.  I 
don't  know  :  he  never  came  back  again." 

"Where's  Van  Bimmiel,  the  schoolmaster?" 

"  He  went  off  to  the  wars  too ;  was  a  great  militia  general ;  and 
is  now  in  Congress." 

Rip's  heart  died  away  at  hearing  of  these  sad  changes  in  his 
home  and  friends,  and  finding  himself  thus  alone  in  the  world. 
Every  answer  puzzled  him,  too,  by  treating  of  such  enormous 
lapses  of  time,  and  of  matters  which  he  could  not  understand,  — 
war.  Congress,  Stony  Point.  He  had  no  courage  to  ask  after  any 
more  friends,  but  cried  out  in  despair,  "  Does  nobody  here  know 
Rip  Van  Winkle  ?  " 

;t  Oh,  Rip  Van  Winkle!"  exclaimed  two  or  three,  —  "oh,  to 
be  sure !  That's  Rip  Van  Winkle  }Tonder,  leaning  against  the 
tree." 

Rip  looked,  and  beheld  a  precise  counterpart  of  himself  as  he 
went  up  the  mountain ;  apparently  as  lazy,  and  certainly  as 
ragged.  The  poor  fellow  was  now  completely  confounded.  He 
doubted  his  own  identity,  and  whether  he  was  himself,  or  another 
man.  In  the  midst  of  his  bewilderment,  the  man  in  the  cocked 
hat  demanded  who  he  was,  and  what  was  his  name. 

"  God  knows  !  "  exclaimed  he,  at  his  wits'  end.  "  I'm  not 
myself:  I'm  somebody  else.  That's  me  yonder — no  —  that's 
somebody  else  got  into  my  shoes.  I  was  myself  last  night;  but 
I  fell  asleep  on  the  mountain  :  and  they've  changed  my  gun;  and 
every  thing's  changed  ;  and  I'm  changed:  and  I  can't  tell  what's 
my  name,  or  who  I  am  !  " 

The  bystanders  began  now  to  look  at  each  other,  nod,  wink 
significantly,  and  tap  their  fingers  against  their  foreheads. 
There  was  a  whisper,  also,  about  securing  the  gun,  and  keeping 
the  old  fellow  from  doing  mischief;  at  the  very  suggestion  of 


WASHINGTON   IRVING.  159 

which  the  self-important  man  in  the  cocked  hat  retired  with  some 
precipitation. 

At  this  critical  moment,  a  fresh,  comely  woman  pressed  through 
the  throng  to  get  a  peep  at  the  gray-bearded  man.  She  had  a 
chubby  child  in  her  arms,  which,  frightened  at  his  looks,  began 
to  cry.  "  Hush,  E-ip  !  "  cried  she,  —  "  hush,  you  little  fool !  The 
old  man  won't  hurt  you."  The  name  of  the  child,  the  air  of  the 
mother,  the  tone  of  her  voice,  all  awakened  a  train  of  recollec- 
tions in  his  mind.  "  What  is  your  name,  my  good  woman  ? " 
asked  he. 

"  Judith  Gardenier." 

"  And  your  father's  name  ?  " 

"  Ah,  poor  man !  Rip  Van  Winkle  was  his  name ;  but  it's 
twenty  years  since  he  went  away  from  home  with  his  gun,  and 
never  has  been  heard  of  since.  His  dog  came  home  without  him  ; 
but  whether  he  shot  himself,  or  was  carried  away  by  the  Indians, 
nobody  can  tell.  I  was  then  but  a  little  girl." 

Rip  had  but  one  question  more  to  ask ;  but  he  put  it  with  a 
faltering  voice  :  — 

"  Where's  your  mother  ?  " 

"Oh  !  she,  too,  had  died  but  a  short  time  since.  She  broke  a 
blood-vessel  in  a  fit  of  passion  at  a  New-England  peddler." 

There  was  a  drop  of  comfort,  at  least,  in  this  intelligence. 
The  honest  man  could  contain  himself  no  longer.  He 
caught  his  daughter  and  her  child  in  his  arms.  "  I  am  your 
father  !  "  cried  he,  —  "  young  Rip  Van  Winkle  once,  old  Rip 
Van  Winkle  now !  Does  nobody  know  poor  Rip  Van  Winkle  ?  " 

All  stood  amazed,  until  an  old  woman,  tottering  out  from 
among  the  crowd,  put  her  hand  to  her  brow,  and,  peering  under  it 
in  his  face  for  a  moment,  exclaimed,  — 

"Sure  enough  !  It  is  Rip  Van  Winkle  !  it  is  himself!  Wel- 
come home  again,  old  neighbor !  Why,  where  have  you  been 
these  twenty  long  years  ? 

Rip's  story  was  soon  told  ;  for  the  whole  twenty  years  had  been  to 
him  but  as  one  night.  The  neighbors  stared  when  they  heard 
it :  some  were  seen  to  wink  at  each  other,  and  put  their  tongues 
in  their  cheeks  ;  and  the  self-important  man  in  the  cocked  hat, 
who,  when  the  alarm  was  over,  had  returned  to  the  field,  screwed 
down  the  corners  of  his  mouth,  and  shook  his  head  ;  upon  which 
there  was  a  general  shaking  of  the  head  throughout  the  assem- 
blage. 

It  was  determined,  however,  to  take  the  opinion  of  old  Peter 
Vanderdonk,  who  was  seen  slowly  advancing  up  the  road.  He 
was  a  descendant  of  the  historian  of  that  name,  who  wrote  one 
of  the  earliest  accounts  of  the  province.  Peter  was  the  most 
ancient  inhabitant  of  the  village,  and  well  versed  in  all  the  won- 


160  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

derful  events  and  traditions  of  the  neighborhood.  He  recollected 
Kip  at  once,  and  corroborated  his  story  in  the  most  satisfactory 
manner.  He  assured  the  company  that  it  was  a  fact,  handed 
down  from  his  ancestor  the  historian,  that  the  Catskill  Mountains 
had  always  been  haunted  by  strange  beings;  that  it  was 
affirmed  that  the  great  Hendrick  Hudson,  the  first  discoverer  of 
the  river  and  country,  kept  a  kind  of  vigil  there  every  twenty 
years  with  his  crew  of  "  The  Half-Moon,"  being  permitted  in  this 
way  to  revisit  the  scenes  of  his  enterprise,  and  to  keep  a  guardian 
eye  on  the  river  and  the  great  city  called  by  his  name  ;  that  his 
father  had  once  seen  them  in  their  old  Dutch  dresses  playing  at 
ninepins  in  a  hollow  of  the  mountain;  and  that  he  himself  had 
heard,  one  summer  afternoon,  the  sound  of  their  balls,  like  distant 
peals  of  thunder. 

To  make  a  long  story  short,  the  company  broke  up,  and 
returned  to  the  more  important  concerns  of  the  election.  Rip's 
daughter  took  him  home  to  live  with  her.  She  had  a  snug,  well- 
furnished  house,  and  a  stout,  cheery  farmer  for  a  husband,  whom 
Kip  recollected  for  one  of  the  urchins  that  used  to  climb  upon 
his  neck.  As  to  Kip's  son  and  heir,  who  was  the  ditto  of  him- 
self, seen  leaning  against  the  tree,  he  was  employed  to  work  on 
the  farm,  but  evinced  an  hereditary  disposition  to  attend  to  any 
thing  but  his  business. 

Kip  now  resumed  his  old  walks  and  habits.  He  soon  found 
many  of  his  former  cronies,  though  all  rather  the  worse  for  the 
wear  and  tear  of  time  ;  and  preferred  making  friends  among  the 
rising  generation,  with  whom  he  soon  grew  into  great  favor. 
Having  nothing  to  do  at  home,  and  being  arrived  at  that  happy 
age  when  a  man  can  be  idle  with  impunity,  he  took  his  place 
once  more  on  the  bench  at  the  inn-door,  and  was  reverenced  as 
one  of  the  patriarchs  of  the  village,  and  a  chronicle  of  the  old 
times  "  before  the  war."  It  was  some  time  before  he  could  get 
into  the  regular  track  of  gossip,  or  could  be  made  to  comprehend 
the  strange  events  that  had  taken  place  during  his  torpor,  —  how 
that  there  had  been  a  revolutionary  war ;  that  the  country  had 
thrown  off  the  yoke  of  Old  England;  and  that,  instead  of  being 
a  subject  of  his  Majesty  George  the  Third,  he  was  now  a  free 
citizen  of  the  United  States.  Kip,  in  fact,  was  no  politician : 
the  changes  of  states  and  empires  made  but  little  impression  on 
him.  But  there  was  one  species  of  despotism  under  which  he  had 
long  groaned,  and  that  was  petticoat  government.  Happily,  that 
was  at  an  end.  He  had  got  his  neck  out  of  the  yoke  of  matri- 
mony, and  could  go  in  and  out  whenever  he  pleased,  without 
dreading  the  tyranny  of  Dame  Van  Winkle.  Whenever  her 
name  was  mentioned,  however,  he  shook  his  head,  shrugged 
his  shoulders,  and  cast  up.  his  eyes ;  which  might  pass  either 


WASHINGTON  IRVING.  1G1 

for  an  expression  of  resignation  to  his  fate,  or  joy  at  his  deliver- 
ance. 

He  used  to  tell  his  story  to  every  stranger  that  arrived  at  Mr. 
Doolittle's  hotel.  He  was  observed,  at  first,  to  vary  on  some 
points  every  time  he  told  it ;  which  was,  doubtless,  owing  to  his 
having  so  recently  awaked.  It  at  last  settled  down  precisely  to 
the  tale  I  have  related ;  and  not  a  man,  woman,  or  child,  in  the 
neighborhood,  but  knew  it  by  heart.  Some  always  pretended  to 
doubt  the  reality  of  it,  and  insisted  that  Rip  had  been  out  of  his 
head,  and  that  this  was  one  point  on  which  he  always  remained 
flighty.  The  old  Dutch  inhabitants,  however,  almost  universally 
gave  it  full  credit.  Even  to  this  day,  they  never  hear  a  thunder- 
storm of  a  summer  afternoon  about  the  Catskill,  but  they  say 
Hendrick  Hudson  and  his  crew  are  at  their  game  of  ninepins ; 
and  it  is  a  common  wish  of  all  henpecked  husbands  in  the  neigh- 
borhood, when  life  hangs  heavy  on  their  hands,  that  they  might 
have  a  quieting  draught  out  of  E/ip  Van  Winkle's  flagon. 


THE    WIDOW'S    RETINUE. 

"Little  dogs  and  all."  — Lear. 

IN  giving  an  account  of  the  arrival  of  Lady  Lillycraft  at  the 
hall,  I  ought  to  have  mentioned  the  entertainment  which  I 
derived  from  witnessing  the  unpacking  of  her  carriage,  and  the 
disposing  of  her  retinue.  There  is  something  extremely  amusing 
to  me  in  the  number  of  factitious  wants,  the  loads  of  imaginary 
conveniences,  but  real  encumbrances,  with  which  the  luxurious 
are  apt  to  burden  themselves.  I  like  to  watch  the  whimsical  stir 
and  display  about  one  of  these  petty  progresses,  —  the  number 
of  robustious  footmen  and  retainers  of  all  kinds  bustling  about, 
with  looks  of  infinite  gravity  and  importance,  to  do  almost 
nothing ;  the  number  of  heavy  trunks  and  parcels  and  band- 
boxes belonging  to  my  lady;  and  the  solicitude  exhibited  about 
some  humble,  odd-looking  box,  by  my  lady's  maid ;  the  cushions 
piled  in  a  carriage  to  make  a  soft  seat  still  softer,  and  to  prevent 
the  dreaded  possibility  of  a  jolt ;  the  smelling-bottles,  the  cordials, 
the  basket  of  biscuit  and  fruit,  the  new  publications  (all  pro- 
vided to  guard  against  hunger,  fatigue,  or  ennui) ;  the  led  horses 
to  vary  the  mode  of  traveling,  — and  all  these  preparations  and 
parade  to  move,  perhaps,  some  very  good-for-nothing  personage 
about  a  little  space  of  earth.  I  do  not  mean  to  apply  the  latter 
part  of  these  observations  to  Lady  Lillycraft,  for  whose  simple 
kind-heartedness  I  have  a  very  great  respect,  and  who  is  really 
11 


162  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

a  most  amiable  and  worthy  being.  I  can  not  refrain,  however, 
from  mentioning  some  of  the  motley  retinue  she  has  brought 
with  her ;  and  which,  indeed,  bespeak-  the  overflowing  kindness 
of  her  nature,  which  requires  her  to  be  surrounded  with  objects 
on  which  to  lavish  it. 

In  the  first  place,  her  ladyship  has  a  pampered  coachman,  with 
a  red  face,  and  cheeks  that  hang  down  like  dew-laps.  He  evi- 
dently domineers  over  her  a  little  with  respect  to  the  fat  hor.-i-s  ; 
and  only  drives  out  when  he  thinks  proper,  and  when  lie  thinks 
it  will  be  "  good  for  the  cattle." 

She  has  a  favorite  page  to  attend  upon  her  person,  —  a  hand- 
some boy  of  about  twelve  years  of  age,  but  a  mischievous  varlet, 
very  much  spoiled,  and  in  a  fair  way  to  be  good  for  nothing.  He 
is  dressed  in  green,  with  a  profusion  of  gold  cord  and  gilt  buttons 
about  his  clothes.  She  always  has  one  or  two  attendants  of  the 
kind,  who  are  replaced  by  others  as  soon  as  they  grow  to  fourteen 
years  of  age.  She  has  brought  two  dogs  with  her  also,  out  of 
a  number  of  pets  which  she  maintains  at  home.  One  is  a  fat 
spaniel,  called  Zephyr;  though  Heaven  defend  me  from  such  a 
zephyr !  He  is  fed  out  of  all  shape  and  comfort ;  his  eyes  are  near- 
ly strained  out  of  his  head;  he  wheezes  with  corpulency,  and 
can  not  walk  without  great  difficulty.  The  other  is  a  little,  old, 
gray,  muzzled  curmudgeon,  with  an  unhappy  eye,  that  kindles  like 
a  coal  if  you  only  look  at  him ;  his  nose  turns  up  ;  his  mouth  is 
drawn  into  wrinkles,  so  as  to  show  his  teeth :  in  short,  he  has 
altogether  the  look  of  a  dog  far  gone  in  misanthropy,  and  totally 
sick  of  the  world.  When  he  walks,  he  has  his  tail  curled  up  so 
tight,  that  it  seems  to  lift  his  feet  from  the  ground  ;  and  he  seldom 
makes  use  of  more  than  three  legs  at  a  time,  keeping  the  other 
drawn  up  as  a  reserve.  This  last  wretch  is  called  Beauty. 

These  dogs  are  full  of  elegant  ailments  unknown  to  vulgar 
.  and  are  petted  and  nursed  by  Lady  Lrillycraft  with  the 
tenderest  kindness.  They  are  pampered  and  fed  with  delicacies 
by  their  fellow-minion,  the  page;  but  their  stomachs  are  weak 
and  out  of  order,  so  that  they  can  not  eat;  though  I  have  now 
and  then  seen  the  page  give  them  a  mischievous  pinch,  or  thwack 
over  the  head,  when  his  mistress  was  not  by.  The}'  have  cush- 
ions for  their  express  use,  on  which  they  lie  before  the  fire,  and 
yet  are  apt  to  shiver  and  moan  if  there  is  the  least  draught  of 
air.  When  any  one  enters  the  room,  they  make  a  tyrannical 
barking  that  is  absolutely  deafening.  They  are  insolent  to  all 
the  other  dogs  of  the  establishment.  There  is  a  noble  stag- 
hound,  a  great  favorite  of  the  squire,  who  is  a  privileged  visitor 
to  the  parlor:  but,  the  moment  he  makes  his  appearance,  these 
intruders  fly  at  him  with  furious  rage  ;  and  I  have  admired  the 
sovereign  indifference  and  contempt  with  which  he  seems  to  look 


WASHINGTON   IRVING.  163 

down  upon  his  puny  assailants.  When  her  ladyship  drives  out, 
these  dogs  are  generally  carried  with  her  to  take  the  air ;  when 
they  look  out  of  each  window  of  the  carriage,  and  bark  at  all 
vulgar  pedestrian  dogs.  These  dogs  are  a  continual  source  of 
misery  to  the  household,  as  they  are  always  in  the  way  ;  and  they 
every  now  and  then  get  their  toes  trod  on,  and  then  there  is  a 
yelping  on  their  part,  and  a  loud  lamentation  on  the  part  of  their 
mistress,  that  fill  the  room  with  clamor  and  confusion. 


BIOGRAPHY    OF    OLIVER    GOLDSMITH. 

THERE  are  few  writers  for  whom  the  reader  feels  such  personal 
kindness  as  for  Oliver  Goldsmith ;  for  few  have  so  eminently  pos- 
sessed the  magic  gift  of  identifying  themselves  with  their  writings. 
We  read  his  character  in  every  page,  and  grow  into  familiar  inti- 
macy with  him  as  we  read.  The  artless  benevolence  that  beams 
throughout  his  works ;  the  whimsical  yet  amiable  views  of  human 
life  and  human  nature ;  the  unforced  humor,  blending  so  happily 
with  good  feeling  and  good  sense,  and  singularly  dashed  at  times 
with  a  pleasing  melancholy;  even  the  very  nature  of  his  mellow 
and  flowing  and  softly-tinted  style,  — all  seem  to  bespeak  his  moral 
as  well  as  his  intellectual  qualities,  and  make  us  love  the  man  at 
the  same  time  that  we  admire  the  author.  While  the  productions 
of  writers  of  loftier  pretension  and  more  sounding  names  are  suf- 
fered to  molder  on  our  shelves,  those  of  Goldsmith  are  cherished 
and  laid  in  our  bosoms.  We  do  not  quote  them  with  ostentation  ; 
but  they  mingle  with  our  minds,  sweeten  our  tempers,  and  har- 
monize our  thoughts :  they  put  us  in  good  humor  with  ourselves 
and  with  the  world ;  and,  in  so  doing,  they  make  us  happier  and 
better  men. 

An  acquaintance  with  the  private  biography  of  Goldsmith  lets 
us  into  the  secret  of  his  gifted  pages.  We  there  discover  them 
to  be  little  more  than  transcripts  o'f  his  own  heart,  and  picturings 
of  his  fortunes.  There  he  shows  himself  the  same  kind,  artless, 
good-humored,  excursive,  sensible,  whimsical,  intelligent  being 
that  he  appears  in  his  writings.  Scarcely  an  adventure  or  char- 
acter is  given  in  his  works  that  may  not  be  traced  to  his  own 
party-colored  story.  Many  of  his  most  ludicrous  scenes  and  ridic- 
ulous incidents  have  been  drawn  from  his  own  blunders  and  mis- 
chances ;  and  he  seems  really  to  have  been  buffeted  into  almost 
every  maxim  imparted  by  him  for  the  instruction  of  his  reader. 

Oliver  Goldsmith  was  born  on  the  10th  of  November,  1728,  at 
the  hamlet  of  Pallas,  or  Pallasmore,  county  of  Longford,  in  Ire- 


164  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

land.  He  sprang  from  a  respectable,  but  by  no  means  a  thrifty 
stock.  Some  families  seem  to  inherit  kindliness  and  incompe- 
tency,  and  to  hand  down  virtue  and  poverty  from  generation  to 
generation.  Such  was  the  case  with  the  Goldsmiths.  "  They 
were  always,"  according  to  their  own  accounts,  "  a  strange  family : 
they  rarely  acted  like  other  people :  their  hearts  were  in  the  right 
place,  but  their  heads  seemed  to  be  doing  any  thing  but  what  they 
ought."  "  They  were  remarkable,"  says  another  statement,  "  for 
their  worth,  but  of  no  cleverness  in  the  ways  of  the  world."  Oli- 
ver Goldsmith  will  be  found  faithfully  to  inherit  the  virtues  and 
weaknesses  of  his  race. 

His  father,  the  Rev.  Charles  Goldsmith,  with  hereditary  im- 
providence, married  when  very  young  and  very  poor,  and  starved 
along  for  several  years  on  a  small  country  curacy  and  the  assist- 
ance of  his  wife's  friends.  His  whole  income,  eked  out  by  the 
produce  of  some  fields  which  he  farmed,  and  of  some  occasional 
duties  performed  for  his  wife's  uncle,  the  rector  of  an  adjoining 
parish,  did  not  exceed  forty  pounds :  — 

"  And  passing  rich  with  forty  pounds  a  year." 

He  inhabited  an  old,  half-rustic  mansion,  that  stood  on  a  rising 
ground  in  a  rough,  lonely  part  of  the  country  overlooking  a  low 
tract  occasionally  flooded  by  the  River  Inny.  In  this  house  Gold- 
smith was  born  :  and  it  was  a  birthplace  worthy  of  a  poet ;  for,  by 
all  accounts,  it  was  haunted  ground.  A  tradition  handed  down 
among  the  neighboring  peasantry  states,  that,  in  after-years,  the 
house,  remaining  for  some  time  untenanted,  went  to  decay,  the 
roof  fell  in,  and  it  became  so  lonely  and  forlorn  as  to  be  a  resort 
for  the  "  good  people,"  or  fairies,  who,  in  Ireland,  are  supposed  to 
delight  in  old,  crazy,  deserted  mansions  for  their  midnight  revels. 
All  attempts  to  repair  it  were  in  vain  :  the  fairies  battled  stoutly 
to  maintain  possession.  A  huge,  misshapen  hobgoblin  used  to  be- 
stride the  house  every  evening  with  an  immense  pair  of  jackboots, 
which,  in  his  efforts  at  hard  riding,  he  would  thrust  through  the 
roof,  kicking  to  pieces  all  the  work  of  the  preceding  day.  The 
house  was  therefore  left  to  its  fate,  and  went  to  ruin. 

Such  is  the  popular  tradition  about  Goldsmith's  birthplace. 
About  two  years  after  his  birth,  a  change  came  over  the  circum- 
stances of  his  father.  Ity  the  death  of  his  wife's  uncle,  he  suc- 
ceeded to  the  rectory  of  Kilkenny  West ;  and,  abandoning  the 
old  goblin  mansion,  he  removed  to  Lissoy,  in  the  county  of  Weste- 
rn eath,  where  he  occupied  a  farm  of  seventy  acres,  situated  on 
the  skirts  of  that  pretty  little  village. 

This  was  the  scene  of  Goldsmith's  boyhood,  —  the  little  world 
whence  he  drew  many  of  those  pictures,  rural  and  domestic, 
whimsical  and  touching,  which  abound  throughout  his  works,  and 


WASHINGTON  IKYING.  1C5 

which  appeal  so  eloquently  both  to  the  fancy  and  the  heart.  Lis- 
soy  is  confidently  cited  as  the  original  of  his  "Auburn"  in  "The 
Deserted  Village."  His  father's  establishment  —  a  mixture  of 
farm  and  parsonage  —  furnished  hints,  it  is  said,  for  the  rural  econ- 
omy of  "The  Vicar  of  Wakefield  ; "  and  his  father  himself,  with 
his  learned  simplicity,  his  guileless  wisdom,  his  amiable  piety,  and 
utter  ignorance  of  the  world,  has  been  exquisitely  portrayed  in 
the  worthy  Dr.  Primrose.  Let  us  pause  for  a  moment,  and  draw 
from  Goldsmith's  writings  one  or  two  of  those  pictures,  which, 
under  feigned  names,  represent  his  father  and  his  family,  and  the 
happy  fireside  of  his  childish  days. 

"  My  father,"  says  the  "  Man  in  Black,"  —  who  in  some  respects 
is  a  counterpart  of  Goldsmith  himself,  —  "  my  father,  the  younger 
son  of  a  good  family,  was  possessed  of  a  small  living  in  the  church. 
His  education  was  above  his  fortune,  and  his  generosity  greater 
than  his  education.  Poor  as  he  was,  he  had  his  flatterers  poorer 
than  himself.  For  every  dinner  he  gave  them,  they  returned  him 
an  equivalent  in  praise  ;  and  this  was  all  he  wanted.  The  same 
ambition  that  actuates  a  monarch  at  the  head  of  his  army  influ- 
enced my  father  at  the  head  of  his  table.  He  told  the  story  of  the 
ivy-tree,  and  that  was  laughed  at;  he  repeated  the  jest  of  the 
two  scholars  and  one  pair  of  breeches,  and  the  company  laughed 
at  that:  but  the  story  of  Taffy  in  the  sedan-chair  was  sure  to  set 
the  table  in  a  roar.  Thus  his  pleasure  increased  in  proportion 
to  the  pleasure  he  gave.  He  loved  all  the  world ;  and  he  fancied 
all  the  world  loved  him. 

"  As  his  fortune  was  but  small,  he  lived  up  to  the  very  extent 
of  it.  He  had  no  intention  of  leaving  his  children  money ;  for 
that  was  dross.  He  resolved  they  should  have  learning;  for 
learning,  he  used  to  observe,  was  better  than  silver  or  gold.  For 
this  purpose,  he  undertook  to  instruct  us  himself,  and  took  as 
much  care  to  form  our  morals  as  to  improve  our  understanding. 
We  were  told  that  universal  benevolence  was  what  first  cemented 
society.  We  were  taught  to  consider  all  the  wants  of  mankind 
as  our  own  ;  to  regard  the  human  face  divine  with  affection  and 
esteem.  He  wound  us  up  to  be  mere  machines  of  pity,  and  ren- 
dered us  incapable  of  withstanding  the  slightest  impulse  made 
either  by  real  or  fictitious  distress.  In  a  word,  we  were  perfectly 
instructed  in  the  art  of  giving  away  thousands  before  we  were 
taught  the  necessary  qualifications  of  getting  a  farthing." 

In  "The  Deserted  Village"  we  have  another  picture  of  his 
father  and  his  father's  fireside :  — 

"  His  house  was  known  to  all  the  vagrant  train : 
He  chid  their  wanderings,  but  relieved  their  pain. 
The  long-remembered  beggar  was  his  guest, 
Whose  beard,  descending,  swept  his  aged  breast; 


166  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

The  ruined  spendthrift,  now  no  longer  proud, 
Claimed  kindred  there,  and  had  his  claims  allowed; 
The  broken  soldier,  kindly  bade  to  stay, 
Sat  by  his  fire,  and  talked  the  nighf  away, 
Wept* o'er  his  wounds,  or,  tales  of  sorrow  done, 
Shouldered  his  crutch,  and  showed  how  fields  were  won. 
Pleased  with  his  guests,  the  good  man  learned  to  glow, 
And  quite  forgot  their  vices  in  their  woe: 
Careless  their  merits  or  their  faults  to  scan, 
His  pity  gave  ere  charity  began.'' 

The  family  of  the  worthy  pastor  consisted  of  five  sons  and 
three  daughters.  Henry,  the  eldest,  was  the  good  man's  pride 
and  hope  ;  and  he  tasked  his  slender  means  to  the  utmost  in  edu- 
cating him  for  a  learned  and  distinguished  career.  Oliver  was 
the  second  son,  and  seven  years  younger  than  Henry,  who 
was  the  guide  and  protector  of  his  childhood,  and  to  whom  he 
was  most  tenderly  attached  throughout  life. 

Oliver's  education  began  when  he  was  about  three  years  old ; 
that  is  to  say,  he  was  gathered  under  the  wings  of  one  of  those 
good  old  motherly  dames,  found  in  every  village,  who  cluck  to- 
gether the  whole  callow  brood  of  the  neighborhood  to  teach  them 
their  letters,  and  keep  them  out  of  harm's  way.  Mistress  Eliza- 
beth Delap  (for  that  was  her  name)  flourished  in  this  capacity  for 
upwards  of  fifty  }Tears;  and  it  was  the  pride  and  boast  of  her 
declining  days,  when  nearly  ninety  years  of  age,  that  she  was  the 
first  that  had  put  a  book  (doubtless  a  hornbook)  into  Goldsmith's 
hands.  Apparently  he  did  not  much  profit  by  it ;  for  she  con- 
fessed he  was  one  of  the  dullest  boys  she  had  ever  dealt  with,  in- 
somuch that  she  had  sometimes  doubted  whether  it  was  possible 
to  make  any  thing  of  him,  —  a  common  case  with  imaginative  chil- 
dren, who  are  apt  to  be  beguiled  from  the  dry  abstractions  of  ele- 
mentary study  by  the  picturings  of  the  fancy. 

At  six  years  of  age  he  passed  into  the  hands  of  the  village 
schoolmaster,  one  Thomas  (or,  as  he  was  commonly  and  irrever- 
ently named,  Paddy)  Byrne,  —  a  capital  tutor  for  a  poet.  He  had 
been  educated  for  a  pedagogue,  but  had  enlisted  in  the  army, 
served  abroad  during  the  wars  of  Queen  Anne's  time,  and  risen  to 
the  rank  of  quartermaster  of  a  regiment  in  Spain.  At  the  return 
of  peace,  having  no  longer  exercise' for  the  sword,  he  resumed  the 
ferule,  and  drilled  the  urchin  populace  of  Lissoy.  Goldsmith  is 
supposed  to  have  had  him  and  his  school  in  view  in  the  following 
sketch  in  his  "  Deserted  Village  :  "  — 

"  Beside  yon  straggling  fence  that  skirts  the  way 
With  blossomed  furze  unprofitably  gay, — 
There,  in  his  noisy  mansion,  skilled  to  rule, 
The  village  master  taught  his  little  school. 
A  man  severe  he  was,  and  stem  to  view: 
I  knew  him  well,  and  every  truant  knew. 
Well  had  the  boding  tremblers  learned  to  trace 
The  day's  disaster*  in  his  morning  face; 


WASHINGTON   IRVING.  167 

Full  well  they  laughed  with  counterfeited  glee 
At  all  his  jokes  (for  many  a  joke  had  he); 
Full  well  the  busy  whisper,  circling  round, 
Conveyed  the  dismal  tidings  when  he  frowned. 
Yet  he  was  kind;  or  if  severe  in  aught, 
The  love  he  bore  to  learning  was  in  fault. 
The  village  all  declared  how  much  he  knew: 
'Twas  certain  he  could  write,  and  cipher  too; 
Lands  he  could  measure,  terms  and  tides  presage; 
And  e'en  the  story  ran  that  he  could  gauge. 
In  arguing,  too,  the  parson  owned  his  skill; 
For,  e'en  though  vanquished,  he  could  argue  still: 
While  words  of  learned  length  and  thundering  sound 
Amazed  the  gazing  rustics  ranged  around; 
And  still  they  gazed,  and  still  the  wonder  grew 
That  one  small  head  could  carry  all  he  knew." 

There  are  certain  whimsical  traits  in  the  character  of  Byrne 
riot  given  in  the  foregoing  sketch.  He  was  fond  of  talking  of  his 
vagabond  wanderings  in  foreign  lands;  and  had  brought  with  him 
from  the  wars  a  world  of  campaigning  stories,  of  which  he  was 
generally  the  hero,  and  which  he  would  deal  forth  to  his  wonder- 
ing scholars  when  he  ought  to  have  been  teaching  them  their  les- 
sons. These  traveler's  tales  had  a  powerful  effect  upon  the  vivid 
imagination  of  Goldsmith,  and  awakened  an  unconquerable  pas- 
sion for  wandering,  and  seeking  adventure.  •  Byrne  was,  moreover, 
of  a  romantic  vein,  and  exceedingly  superstitious.  He  was  deeply 
versed  in  the  fairy  superstitions  which  abound  in  Ireland;  all  which 
he  professed  implicitly  to  believe.  Under  his  tuition,  Goldsmith 
soon  became  almost  as  great  a  proficient  in  fairy  lore.  From  this 
branch  of  good-for-nothing  knowledge,  his  studies,  by  an  easy 
transition,  extended  to  the  histories  of  robbers,  pirates,  smugglers, 
and  the  whole  race  of  Irish  rogues  and  rapparees.  Every  thing, 
in  short,  that  savored  of  romance,  fable,  and  adventure.,  was  con- 
genial to  his  poetic  mind,  and  took  instant  root  there ;  but  the 
slow  plants  of  useful  knowledge  were  apt  to  be  overrun,  if  not 
choked,  by  the  weeds"  of  his  quick  imagination. 

Another  trait  of  his  motley  preceptor,  Byrne,  was  a  disposition 
to  dabble  in  poetry ;  and  this,  likewise,  was  caught  by  his  pupil. 
Before  he  was  eight  years  old,  Goldsmith  had  contracted  a  habit 
of  scribbling  verses  on  small  scraps  of  paper,  which,  in  a  little 
while,  he  would  throw  into  the  fire.  A  few  of  these  sibylline 
leaves,  however,  were  rescued  from  the  flames,  and  conveyed  to  his 
mother.  The  good  woman  read  them  with  a  mother's  delight, 
and  saw  at  once  that  her  son  was  a  genius  and  a  poet.  From 
that  time,  she  beset  her  husband  with  solicitations  to  give  the  boy 
an  education  suitable  to  his  talents.  The  worthy  man  was  already 
straitened  by  the  costs  of  instruction  of  his  eldest  son  Henry, 
and  had  intended  to  bring  his  second  son  up  to  a  trade.  But  the 
mother  would  listen  to  no  such  thing :  as  usual,  her  influence  pre- 
vailed ;  and  Oliver,  instead  of  being  instructed  in  some  humble 


168  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

but  cheerful  and  gainful  handicraft,  was  devoted  to  poverty  and 
the  Muse. 

A  severe  attack  of  the  sinall-pox  caused  him  to  be  taken  from 
under  the  care  of  his  story-telling  preceptor,  Byrne.  His  malady 
had  nearly  proved  fatal ;  and  his  face  remained  pitted  through 
life.  On  his  recovery,  he  was  placed  under  the  charge  of  the  Rev. 
Mr.  Griffin,  schoolmaster  of  Elphin,  in  Roscommon ;  and  became 
an  inmate  in  the  house  of  his  uncle,  John  Goldsmith,  Esq.,  of 
Ballyonghter,  in  that  vicinity.  He  now  entered  upon  studies  of 
a  higher  order,  but  without  making  any  uncommon  progress. 
Still  a  careless,  easy  facility  of  disposition,  an  amusing  eccentri- 
city of  manners,  and  a  vein  of  quiet  and  peculiar  humor,  rendered 
him  a  general  favorite ;  and  a  trifling  incident  soon  induced  his 
uncle's  family  to  concur  in  his  mother's  opinion  of  his  genius. 

A  number  of  young  folks  had  assembled  at  his  uncle's  to  dance. 
One  of  the  company,  named  Cummings,  played  on  the  violin. 
In  the  course  of  the  evening,  Oliver  undertook  a  hornpipe.  His 
short  and  clumsy  figure,  and  his  face  pitted  and  discolored  with 
the  small-pox,  rendered  him  a  ludicrous  figure  in  the  eyes  of  the 
musician,  who  made  merry  at  his  expense,  dubbing  him  his  little 
^Esop.  Goldsmith  was  nettled  by  the  jest,  and,  stopping  short  in 
the  hornpipe,  exclaimed,  — 

"  Our  herald  hath  proclaimed  this  saying,  — 
See  JSsop  dancing,  and  his  monkey  playing." 

The  repartee  was  thought  wonderful  for  a  boy  of  nine  years 
old;  and  Oliver  became,  forthwith,  the  wit  and  the  bright  genius 
of  the  family.  It  was  thought  a  pity  he  should  not  receive  the 
same  advantages  with  his  elder  brother  Henry,  who  had  been  sent 
to  the  university  ;  and,  as  his  father's  circumstances  would  not 
afford  it,  several  of  his  relatives,  spurred  on  by  the  representa- 
tions of  his  mother,  agreed  to  contribute  towards  the  expense. 
The  greater  part,  however,  was  borne  by  his  uncle,  the  Rev. 
Thomas  Cantarine.  This  worthy  man  had  been  the  college  com- 
panion of  Bishop  Berkeley,  and  was  possessed  of  moderate  means, 
holding  the  living  of  Carrick-on-Shannon.  He  had  married  the 
sister  of  Goldsmith's  father,  but  was  now  a  widower,  with  an  only 
child,  —  a  daughter,  named  Jane.  Cantarine  was  a  kind-hearted 
man,  with  a  generosity  beyond  his  means.  He  took  Goldsmith 
into  favor  from  his  infancy.  His  daughter  Jane,  two  years  older 
than  the  poet,  was  his  early  playmate  ;  and  Uncle  Cantarine  con- 
tinued to  the  last  one  of  his  most  active,  unwavering,  and  gener- 
ous friends. 

Fitted  out  in  a  great  measure  by  this  considerate  relative,  Oli- 
ver was  now  transferred  to  schools  of  a  higher  order  to  prepare 
him  for  the  university,  —  first  to  one  at  Athlone,  kept  by  the  Rev. 


WASHINGTON   IRVING.  169 

Mr.  Campbell ;  and,  at  the  end  of  two  years,  to  one  at  Edge- 
worthstovvn,  under  the  superintendence  of  the  Rev.  Patrick 
Hughes.  Even  at  these  schools,  his  proficiency  does  not  appear 
to  have  been  brilliant.  He  was  indolent  and  careless,  however, 
rather  than  dull;  and,  on  the  whole,  appears  to  have  been  well 
thought  of  by  his  teachers.  In  his  studies,  he  inclined  towards 
the  Latin  poets  and  historians ;  relished  Ovid  and  Horace,  and 
delighted  in  Livy.  He  exercised  himself  with  pleasure  in  read- 
ing and  translating  Tacitus ;  and  was  brought  to  pay  attention  to 
style  in  his  compositions  by  a  reproof  from  his  brother  Henry,  to 
whom  he  had  written  brief  and  confused  letters,  and  who  told 
him  in  reply,  that,  if  he  had  but  little  to  say,  to  endeavor  to  say 
that  little  well. 

The  career  of  his  brother  Henry  at  the  university  was  enough 
to  stimulate  him  to  exertion.  He  seemed  to  be  realizing  all  his 
father's  hopes,  and  was  winning  collegiate  honors  that  the  good 
man  considered  indicative  of  his  future  success  in  life. 

In  the  mean  while,  Oliver,  if  not  distinguished  among  his  teach- 
ers, was  popular  among  his  schoolmates.  He  had  a  thoughtless 
generosity  extremely  captivating  to  young  hearts.  His  temper 
was  quick  and  sensitive,  and  easily  offended ;  but  his  anger  was 
momentary,  and  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  harbor  resentment. 
He  was  the  leader  of  all  boyish  sports  and  athletic  amusements, 
especially  ball-playing ;  and  he  was  foremost  in  all  mischievous 
pranks.  Many  years  afterward,  an  old  man,  Jack  Fitzsimmons, 
one  of  the  directors  of  the  sports,  and  keeper  of  the  ball-count,  at 
Ballymahon,  used  to  boast  of  having  been  schoolmate  of  "  Noll 
Goldsmith,"  as  he  called  him  ;  and  would  dwell  with  vain-glory  on 
one  of  their  exploits  in  robbing  the  orchards  of  Tirlicken,  an  old 
family  residence  of  Lord  Annaby. 

The  exploit,  however,  had  nearly  involved  disastrous  conse- 
quences ;  for  the  crew  of  juvenile  depredators  were  captured,  like 
Shakspeare  and  his  deer-stealing  colleagues :  and  nothing  but 
the  respectability  of  Goldsmith's  connections  saved  him  from  the 
punishment  that  would  have  awaited  more  plebeian  delinquents. 

An  amusing  incident  is  related  as  occurring  in  Goldsmith's  last 
journey  homeward  from  Edgeworthstovvn.  His  father's  house 
was  about  twenty  miles  distant :  the  road  lay  through  a  rough 
country,  impassable  for  carriages.  Goldsmith  procured  a  horse 
for  the  journey;  and  a  friend  furnished  him  with  a  guinea  for 
traveling-expenses.  He  was  but  a  stripling  of  sixteen ;  and  be- 
ing thus  suddenly  mounted  on  horseback,  with  money  in  his 
pocket,  it  is  no  wonder  that  his  head  was  turned.  He  determined 
to  play  the  man,  and  to  spend  his  money  in  independent  travel- 
er's style.  Accordingly,  instead  of  pushing  directly  for  home,  he 
halted  for  the  night  at  the  little  town  of  Andagh,  and,  accosting 


170  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

the  first  person  he  met,  inquired  with  somewhat  of  a  consequen- 
tial air  for  the  best  house  in  the  place.  Unluckily,  the  person 
he  had  accosted  was  one  Kelly,  a  notorious  wag,  who  was  quar- 
tered in  a  family  of  one  Mr.  Featherstone,  a  gentleman  of  for- 
tune. Amused  with  the  self-consequence  of  the  stripling,  and 
willing  to  pay  off  a  practical  joke  at  his  expense,  he  directed  him 
to  what  was  literally  "  the  best  house  in  the  place ; "  namely,  the 
family  mansion  of  Mr.  Featherstone.  Goldsmith,  accordingly, 
rode  up  to  what  he  supposed  to  be  an  inn ;  ordered  his  horse  to  be 
taken  to  the  stable;  walked  into  the  parlor,  seated  himself  by  the 
fire,  and  demanded  what  he  could  have  for  supper.  On  ordinary 
occasions,  he  was  diffident,  and  even  awkward  in  his  manners :  but 
here  he  was  at  ease  in  his  inn  ;  and  he  felt  called  upon  to  show  his 
manhood,  and  enact  the  experienced  traveler.  His  person  was 
by  no  means  calculated  to  play  off  his  pretensions ;  for  he  was 
short  and  thick,  with  a  pock-marked  face,  and  an  air  and  carriage 
by  no  means  of  a  distinguished  cast.  The  owner  of  the  house, 
however,  soon  discovered  his  whimsical  mistake,  and,  being  a  nuiu 
of  humor,  determined  to  indulge  it,  especially  as  he  accidentally 
learned  that  this  intruding  guest  was  the  son  of  an  old  acquaint- 
ance. 

Accordingly,  Goldsmith  was  "fooled  to  the  top  of  his  bent," 
and  permitted  to  have  full  sway  throughout  the  evening.  Never 
was  schoolboy  more  elated.  When  supper  was  served,  he  most 
condescendingly  insisted  that  the  landlord,  his  wife  and  daughter, 
should  partake ;  and  ordered  a  bottle  of  wine  to  crown  the  repast, 
and  benefit  the 'house.  His  last  flourish  was  on  going  to  bed, 
when  lie  gave  especial  orders  to  have  a  hot  cake  at  breakfast. 
His  confusion  and  dismay  on  discovering,  the  next  morning,  that 
he  had  been  swaggering  in  this  free-and-easy  way  in  the  house 
of  a  private  gentleman,  may  be  readily  conceived.  True  to  his 
habit  of  turning  the  events  of  his  life  to  literary  account,  we  find 
this  chapter  of  ludicrous  blunders  and  cross-purposes  dramatized 
many  years  afterward  in  his  admirable  comedy  of  "  She  Stoops  to 
Conquer ;  or,  The  Mistakes  of  a  Night."  Chap.  I. 


HISTORY     OF    NEW    YORK. 
DESCRIPTION  OF  THE  WOULD. 

ACCORDING  to  the  best  authorities,  the  world  in  which  we  d\vdl 
is  a  huge,  opaque,  reflecting,  inanimate  mass,  floating  in  the  vast 
ethereal  ocean  of  infinite  space.  It  has  the  form  of  an  orange, 
being  an  oblate  spheroid  curiously  flattened  at  opposite  parts  for 


WASHINGTON  IRVING.  171 

the  insertion  of  two  imagmar}7-  poles,  which  are  supposed  to  pene- 
trate, and  unite  at  the  center ;  thus  forming  an  axis  on  which 
the  mighty  orange  turns  with  a  regular  diurnal  revolution. 

The  transitions  of  light  and  darkness,  whence  proceed  the 
alternations  of  day  and  night,  are  produced  by  this  diurnal  revolu- 
tion, successively  presenting  the  different  parts  of  the  earth  to 
the  rays  of  the  sun.  The  latter  is,  according  to  the  best,  that  is 
to  say  the  latest  accounts,  a  luminous  or  fiery  body  of  a  prodi- 
gious magnitude,  from  which  this  world  is  driven  by  a  centrifugal 
or  repelling  power,  and  to  which  it  is  drawn  by  a  centripetal  or 
attractive  force,  otherwise  called  the  attraction  of  gravitation ; 
the  combination,  or  rather  the  counteraction,  of  these  two  oppos- 
ing impulses,  producing  a  circular  and  annual  revolution.  Hence 
result;  the  different  seasons  of  the  year;  viz.,  spring,  summer, 
autumn,  and  winter. 

This  I  believe  to  be  the  most  approved  modern  theory  on  the 
subject :  though  there  be  many  philosophers  who  have  enter- 
tained very  different  opinions ;  some,  too,  of  them  entitled  to 
much  deference  from  their  great  antiquity  and  illustrious  charac- 
ter. Thus  it  was  advanced  by  some  of  the  ancient  sages,  that 
the  earth  was  an  extended  plain,  supported  by  vast  pillars ;  and 
by  others,  that  it  rested  on  the  head  of  a  snake  or  the  back  of  a 
huge  tortoise :  but,  as  they  did  not  provide  a  resting-place  for 
either  the  pillars  or  the  tortoise,  the  whole  theory  fell  to  the1 
ground  for  want  of  proper  foundation. 

The  Brahmins  assert  that  the  heavens  rest  upon  the  earth, 
and  the  sun  and  moon  swim  therein  like  fishes  in  the  water, 
moving  from  east  to  west  by  day,  and  gliding  along  the  edge  of 
the  horizon  to  their  original  stations  during  night:  while,  accord- 
ing to  the  puranas  of  India,  it  is  a  vast  plain,  encircled  by 
seven  oceans  of  milk,  nectar,  and  other  delicious  liquids ;  that  it 
is  studded  with  seven  mountains,  and  ornamented  in  the  center 
by  a  mountainous  rock  of  burnished  gold ;  and  that  a  great 
dragon  occasionally  swallows  up  the  moon,  which  accounts  for  the 
phenomena  of  lunar  eclipses. 

Besides  these  and  many  other  equally  sage  opinions,  we  have 
the  profound  conjectures  of  ABOUL  HASSAN-ALY,  son  of  Al 
Khan,  son  of  Aly,  son  of  Abderrahman,  son  of  Abdallah,  son  of 
Masoud-el-Hadheli,  who  is  commonly  called  MASOUDI,  and  sur- 
named  Cothbiddin,  but  who  takes  the  humble  title  of  Laheb- 
ar-rasoul,  which  means  the  companion  of  the  ambassador  of 
God.  He  has  written  a  universal  history,  entitled  "  Mourondge- 
ed-dharab ;  or,  The  Golden  Meadows  and  the  Mines  of  Precious 
Stones."  In  this  valuable  work  he  has  related  the  history  of  the 
world,  from  the  creation  down  to  the  moment  of  writing;  which 
was  under  the  Khaliphat  of  Mothi  Billah,  in  the  month  Dgiou- 


172  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

madi-el-aoual  of  the  three  hundred  and  thirty-sixth  year  of  the 
Hegira,  or  flight  of  the  Prophet.  He  informs  us  that  the  earth 
is  a  huge  bird  ;  Mecca  and  Medina  constituting  the  head,  Persia 
and  India  the  right  wing,  the  land  of  Eng  the  left  wing,  and 
Africa  the  tail.  He  informs  us,  moreover,  that  an  earth  has 
existed  before  the  present  (which  he  considers  as  a  mere  chicken 
of  seven  thousand  years)  ;  that  it  has  undergone  divers  deluges  ; 
and  that,  according  to  the  opinion  of  some  well-informed  Brah- 
mins of  his  acquaintance,  it  will  be  renovated  every  seventy  thou- 
sandth hazarouam,  each  hazarouam  consisting  of  twelve  thousand 
years. 

These  are  a  few  of  the  many  contradictory  opinions  of  philoso- 
phers concerning  the  earth  ;  and  we  find  that  the  learned  have 
had  equal  perplexity  as  to  the  nature  of  the  sun.  Some  of 
the  ancient  philosophers  have  affirmed  that  it  is  a  vast  wheel  of 
brilliant  fire  ;  others,  that  it  is  merely  a  mirror,  or  sphere,  of  trans- 
parent crystal;  and  a  third  class,  at  the  head  of  whom  stands 
Anaxagoras,  maintained  that  it  was  nothing  but  a  huge  ignited 
mass  of  iron  or  stone :  indeed,  he  declared  the  heavens  to  be 
merely  a  vault  of  stone,  and  that  the  stars  were  stones  whirled 
upward  from  the  earth,  and  set  on  fire  by  the  velocity  of  its 
revolutions.  But  I  give  little  attention  to  the  doctrines  of  this 
philosopher;  the  people  of  Athens  having  fully  refuted  them  by 
banishing  him  from  their  city,  —  a  concise  mode  of  answering 
unwelcome  doctrines,  much  resorted  to  in  former  days.  Another 
sect  of  philosophers  do  declare  that  certain  fiery  particles  exhale 
constantly  from  the  earth,  which,  concentrating  in  a  single  point 
of  the  firmament  by  day,  constitute  the  sun ;  but  being  scattered, 
and  rambling  about  in  the  dark  at  night,  collect  in  various  points, 
and  form  stars.  These  are  regularly  burnt  out  and  extinguished, 
not  unlike  to  the  lamps  in  our  streets  ;  and  require  a  fresh  supply 
of  exhalatives  for  the  next  occasion. 

It  is  even  recorded,  that  at  certain  remote  and  obscure  periods, 
in  consequence  of  a  great  scarcity  of  fuel,  the  sun  has  been  com- 
pletely burnt  out,  and  sometimes  not  rekindled  for  a  month  at  a 
time,  —  a  most  melancholy  circumstance,  the  very  idea  of  which 
gave  vast  concern  to  Heraclitus,  that  worthy  weeping  philosopher 
of  antiquity.  In  addition  to  these  various  speculations,  it  was 
the  opinion  of  Herschel  that  the  sun  is  a  magnificent  habitable 
abode  ;  the  light  it  furnishes  arising  from  certain  empyreal,  lumi- 
nous, or  phosphoric  clouds  swimming  in  its  transparent  atmos- 
phere. 

But  we  will  not  enter  further  at  present  into  the  nature  of 
the  sun ;  that  being  an  inquiry  not  immediately  necessary  to  the 
development  of  this  history.  Neither  will  we  embroil  ourselves 
in  any  more  of  the  endless  disputes  of  philosophers  touching  the 


WASHINGTON  IRVING.  173 

form  of  this  globe,  but  content  ourselves  with  the  theory 
advanced  in  the  beginning  of  this  chapter ;  and  will  proceed  to 
illustrate,  by  experiment,  the  complexity  of  motion  therein 
ascribed  to  this  our  rotatory  planet. 

Prof.  Von  Poddingcoft  (or  Puddinghead,  as  the  name  may  be 
rendered  into  English)  was  long  celebrated  in  the  University 
of  Leyden  for  profound  gravity  of  deportment,  and  a  talent  at 
going  to  sleep  in  the  midst  of  examinations,  to  the  infinite  relief 
of  his  hopeful  students,  who  thereby  worked  their  way  through 
college  with  great  ease-  and  little  study.  In  the  course  of  one 
of  his  lectures,  the  learned  professor,  seizing  a  bucket  of  water, 
swung  it  around  his  head  at  arm's-length ;  the  impulse  with 
which  he  threw  the  vessel  from  him  being  a  centrifugal  force, 
the  retention  of  his  arm  operating  as  a  centripetal  power,  and  the 
bucket,  which  was  a  substitute  for  the  earth,  describing  a  circular 
orbit  round  about  the  globular  head  and  ruby  visage  of  Prof. 
Von  Poddingcoft,  which  formed  no  bad  representation  of  the 
sun.  All  of  these  particulars  were  duly  explained  to  the  class 
of  gaping  students  around  him.  He  apprised  them,  moreover, 
that  the  same  principle  of  gravitation  which  retained  the  water 
in  the  bucket  restrains  the  ocean  from  flying  from  the  earth  in 
its  rapid  revolutions ;  and  he  further  informed  them,  that,  should 
the  motion  of  the  earth  be  suddenly  checked,  it  would  inconti- 
nently fall  into  the  sun,  through  the  centripetal  force  of  gravita- 
tion,—  a  most  ruinous  event  to  this  planet,  and  one  which  would 
also  obscure,  though  it  most  probably  would  not  extinguish,  the 
solar  luminary.  An  unlucky  stripling,  one  of  those  vagrant 
geniuses  who  seem  sent  into  the  world  merely  to  annoy  men  of 
the  Puddinghead  order,  desirous  of  ascertaining  the  correctness 
of  the  experiment,  suddenly  arrested  the  arm  of  the  professor 
just  at  the  moment  that  the  bucket  was  in  its  zenith,  which 
immediately  descended  with  astonishing  precision  upon  the  philo- 
sophic head  of  the  instructor  of  youth.  A  hollow  sound  and 
a  red-hot  hiss  attended  the  contact :  but  the  theory  was  in  the 
amplest  manner  illustrated,  for  the  unfortunate  bucket  perished 
in  the  conflict ;  but  the  blazing  countenance  of  Prof.  Von 
Poddingcoft  emerged  from  amidst  the  waters,  glowing  fiercer 
than  ever  with  unutterable  indignation,  whereby  the  students 
were  marvelously  edified,  and  departed  considerably  wiser  than 
before. 

It  is  a  mortifying  circumstance,  which  greatly  perplexes  many 
a  painstaking  philosopher,  that  Nature  often  refuses  to  second  his 
most  profound  and  elaborate  efforts;  so  that,  after  having  in- 
vented one  of  the  most  ingenious  and  natural  theories  imaginable, 
she  will  have  the  perverseness  to  act  directly  in  the  teeth  of  his 
system,  and  flatly  contradict  his  most  favorite  positions.  This  is 


174  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

a  manifest  and  unmerited  grievance,  since  it  throws  the  censure 
of  the  vulgar  and  unlearned  entirely  upon  the  philosopher ; 
whereas  the  fault  is  not  to  be  ascribed  to  his  theory,  which  is 
unquestionably  correct,  but  to  the  waywardness  of  Dame  Nature, 
who,  with  the  proverbial  fickleness  of  her  sex,  is  continually 
indulging  in  coquetries  and  caprices,  and  seems  really  to  take 
pleasure  in  violating  all  philosophic  rules,  and  jilting  the  most 
learned  and  indefatigable  of  her  adorers.  Thus  it  happened 
with  respect  to  the  foregoing  satisfactory  explanation  of  the 
motion  of  our  planet.  It  appears  that  the  centrifugal  force  has 
long  since  ceased  to  operate,  while  its  antagonist  remains  in  undi- 
minished  potency :  the  world,  therefore,  according  to  the  theory 
as  it  originally  stood,  ought  in  strict  propriety  to  tumble  into  the 
sun.  Philosophers  were  convinced  that  it  would  do  so,  and  awaited 
in  anxious  impatience  the  fulfillment  of  their  prognostics.  But' 
the  untoward  planet  pertinaciously  continued  her  course,  notwith- 
standing that  she  had  reason,  philosophy,  and  a  whole  university 
of  learned  professors,  opposed  to  her  conduct.  The  philosophers 
took  this  in  very  ill  part ;  and  it  is  thought  they  would  never  have 
pardoned  the  slight  and  affront  which  they  conceived  put  upon 
them  by  the  world,  had  not  a  good-natured  professor  kindty  offi- 
ciated as  a  mediator  between  the  parties,  and  effected  a  reconcil- 
iation. 

Finding  the  world  would  not  accommodate  itself  to  the  theory, 
he  wisely  determined  to  accommodate  the  theory  to  the  world : 
he  therefore  informed  his  brother  philosophers  that  the  cir- 
cular motion  of  the  earth  round  the  sun  was  no  sooner  engen- 
dered by  the  conflicting  impulses  above  described  than  it  became 
a  regular  revolution,  independent  of  the  causes  which  gave  it 
origin.  His  learned  brethren  readily  joined  in  the  opinion,  being 
heartily  glad  of  any  explanation  that  would  decently  extricate 
them  from  their  embarrassment;  and,  ever  since  that  memorable 
era,  the  world  has  been  left  to  take  her  own  course,  and  to  revolve 
around  the  sun  in  such  orbit  as  she  thinks  proper.  chap.  i. 


NATHANIEL  HAWTHOKNE.  175 

NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

1804-1864. 

A  writer  of  singular  purity  and  simplicity.  His  writings  are  principally  denoted 
by  their  fine  poetical  imagery,  originality  of  thought  and  expression.  His  pleasant 
fancies  are  philosophical,  and  his  keen  reflections  not  too  metaphysical. 

PRINCIPAL  PRODUCTIONS. 

"  Twice-told  Tales;  "  "  Our  Old  Home;  "  "  Mosses  from  an  Old  Manse;  "  "  The 
Scarlet  Letter;  "  "  The  House  of  the  Seven  Gables;  "  "  True  Stories  from  History 
and  Biography;"  "The  Blithedale  Romance;"  "A  Wonder-Book  for  Boys  and 
Girls,  in  1852  V  "The  Snow-Image  and  other  Twice-told  Tales;"  "  Tanglevvood 
Tales,  for  Boys  and  Girls;  "  "  The  Marble  Faun;  "  "  Passages  from  the  American 
Note-Books  of  Nathaniel  Hawthorne." 


A    RILL  FROM    THE    TOWN-PUMP. 
SCENE.  —  The  corned  of  two  principal  streets.    The  TOWN-PUMP  talking  through  its 


nose. 


Noox  by  the  north  clock  !  Noon  by  the  east !  High  noon, 
too,  by  these  hot  sunbeams,  which  fall  scarcely  aslope  upon  my 
head,  and  almost  make  the  water  bubble  and  smoke  in  the 
trough  under  my  nose !  Truly,  we  public  characters  have  a 
tough  time  of  it !  And,  among  all  the  town-officers  chosen  at 
March  meeting,  where  is  he  that  sustains  for  a  single  year  the 
burden  of  such  manifold  duties  as  are  imposed  in  perpetuity 
upon  the  Town-Pump  ?  The  title  of  "Town  Treasurer  "  is  right- 
fully mine,  as  guardian  of  the  best  treasure  that  the  town  has. 
The  overseers  of  the  poor  ought  to  make  me  their  chairman, 
since  I  provide  bountifully  for  the  pauper,  without  expense  to 
him  that  pays  taxes.  I  am  at  the  head  of  the  fire-department, 
and  one  of  the  physicians  to  the  board  of  health.  As  a  keeper 
of  the  peace,  all  water-drinkers  will  confess  me  equal  to  the 
constable.  I  perform  some  of  the  duties  of  the  town-clerk  by 
promulgating  public  notices  when  they  are  posted  on  my  front. 
To  speak  within  bounds,  I  am  the  chief  person  of  the  munici- 
pality, and  exhibit,  moreover,  an  admirable  pattern  to  my  brother- 
officers,  by  the  cool,  steady,  upright,  downright,  and  impartial 
discharge  of  my  business,  and  the  constancy  with  which  I  stand 
to  my  post.  Summer  or  winter,  nobody  seeks  me  in  vain :  for, 
all  day  long,  I  am  seen  at  the  busiest  corner,  just  above  the 
market,  stretching  out  my  arms  to  rich  and  poor  alike;  and  at 
night  I  hold  a  lantern  over  my  head,  both  to  show  where  I  am, 
and  keep  people  out  of  the  gutters. 


176  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

At  this  sultry  noontide,  I  am  cupbearer  to  the  parched  popu- 
lace, for  whose  benefit  an  iron  goblet  is  chained  to  my  waist. 
Like  a  dramseller  on  the  mall  at  muster-day,  I  cry  aloud  to  all 
and  sundry,  in  my  plainest  accents,  and  at  the  very  tiptop  of  my 
voice,  "  Here  it  is,  gentlemen  !  Here  is  the  good  liquor !  Walk 
up,  walk  up,  gentlemen  !  walk  up,  walk  up  !  Here  is  the  superior 
stuff!  Here  is  the  unadulterated  ale  of  Father  Adam, — better 
than  Cognac,  Hollands,  Jamaica,  strong  beer,  or  wine  of  any 
price !  here  it  is  by  the  hogshead  or  the  single  glass,  and  not  a 
cent  to  pay  !  Walk  up,  gentlemen,  walk  up,  and  help  your- 
selves !"' 

It  were  a  pity  if  all  this  outcry  should  draw  no  customers. 
Here  they  come  !  "  A  hot  day,  gentlemen !  Quaff,  and  away 
again,  so  as  to  keep  yourselves  in  a  nice  cool  sweat.  You,  my 
friend,  will  need  another  cupful  to  wash  the  dust  out  of  your 
throat,  if  it  be  as  thick  there  as  it  is  on  your  cowhide  shoes.  I 
see  that  you  have  trudged  half  a  score  of  miles  to-day,  and, 
like  a  wise  man,  have  passed  by  the  taverns,  and  stopped  at  the 
running  brooks  and  well-curbs.  Otherwise,  betwixt  heat  without 
and  fire  within,  you  would  have  been  burnt  to  a  cinder,  or  melted 
down  to  nothing  at  all,  in  the  fashion  of  a  jelly-fish.  Drink,  and 
make  room  for  that  other  fellow  who  seeks  my  aid  to  quench 
the  fiery  fever  of  last  night's  potations,  which  he  drained  from  no 
cup  of  mine.  Welcome,  most  rubicund  sir!  You  and  I  have 
been  great  strangers  hitherto  ;  nor,  to  confess  the  truth,  will  my 
nose  be  anxious  for  a  closer  intimacy  till  the  fumes  of  your 
breath  be  a  little  less  potent.  Mercy  on  you,  man  !  the  water 
absolutely  hisses  down  your  red-hot  gullet,  and  is  converted  quite 
to  steam  in  the  miniature  Tophet  which  you  mistake  for  a 
stomach.  Fill  again,  and  tell  me,  on  the  word  of  an  honest  toper, 
did  you  ever,  in  cellar,  tavern,  or  any  kind  of  a  dram-shop,  spend 
the  price  of  your  children's  food  for  a  swig  half  so  delicious  ? 
Now,  for  the  first  time  these  ten  years,  you  know  the  flavor  of 
cold  water.  Good-by !  and,  whenever  you  are  thirsty,  remember 
that  I  keep  a  constant  supply  at  the  old  stand.  Who  next  ? 
0  my  little  friend !  you  are  let  loose  from  school,  and  come 
hither  to  scrub  your  blooming  face,  and  drown  the  memory  of 
certain  taps  of  the  ferule  and  other  schoolboy  troubles,  in  a 
draught  from  the  Town-Pump.  Take  it,  pure  as  the  current  of 
your  young  life  !  Take  it,  and  may  your  heart  and  tongue  never 
be  scorched  with  a  fiercer  thirst  than  now!  There,  my  dear 
child,  put  down  the  cup,  and  yield  your  place  to  this  elderly  gen- 
tleman, who  treads  so  tenderly  over  the  paving-stones,  that  I 
suspect  he- is  afraid  of  breaking  them.  What!  he  limps  by 
without  so  much  as  thanking  me;  as  if  my  hospitable  offers  were 
meant  only  for  people  who  have  no  wine-cellars.  Well,  well,  sir, 


NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE.  177 

no  harm  done,  I  hope  !  Go  draw  the  cork,  tip  the  decanter  ;  hut, 
when  your  great  toe  shall  set  you  a-roaring,  it  will  be  no  affair  of 
mine.  If  gentlemen  love  the  pleasant  titillation  of  the  gout,  it 
is  all  one  to  the  Town-Pump.  This  thirsty  dog,  with  his  red 
tongue  lolling  out,  does  not  scorn  my  hospitality,  but  stands  on 
his  hind-legs,  and  laps  eagerly  out  of  the  trough.  See  how 
lightly  he  capers  away  again  !  Jowler,  did  your  worship  ever 
have  the  gout  ?  .  .  . 

"  Your  pardon,  good  people  !  I  must  interrupt  my  stream  of 
eloquence,  and  spout  forth  a  stream  of  water  to  replenish  the 
trough  for  this  teamster  and  his  two  yoke  of  oxen,  who  have  come 
from  Topsfield,  or  somewhere  along  that  way.  No  part  of  my 
business  is  pleasanter  than  the  watering  of  cattle.  Look !  how 
rapidly  they  lower  the  water-mark  on  the  sides  of  the  trough, 
till  their  capacious  stomachs  are  moistened  with  a  gallon  or  two 
apiece,  and  they  can  afford  time  to  breathe  it  in  with  sighs  of  calm 
enjoyment.  Now  they  roll  their  quiet  eyes  around  the  brim  of 
their  monstrous  drinking-vessel.  An  ox  is  your  true  toper.  .  .  . 

"  Ahem  !  Dry  work  this  speechifying,  especially  to  an  unprac- 
ticed  orator.  I  never  conceived  till  now  what  toil  the  temperance 
lecturers  undergo  for  my  sake.  Hereafter,  they  shall  have  the 
business  to  themselves.  Do,  some  kind  Christian,  pump  a  stroke 
or  two,  just  to  wet  my  whistle.  Thank  you,  sir !  My  dear 
hearers,  when  the  world  shall  have  been  regenerated  by  my 
instrumentality,  you  will  collect  your  useless  vats  and  liquor- 
casks  into  one  great  pile,  and  make  a  bonfire  in  honor  of  the 
Town-Pump.  And  when  I  shall  have  decayed,  like  my  prede- 
cessors, then,  if  you  revere  my  memory,  let  a  marble  fountain, 
richly  sculptured,  take  my  place  upon  the  spot.  Such  monu- 
ments should  be  erected  everywhere,  and  inscribed  with  the 
names  of  the  distinguished  champions  of  my  cause."  .  .  . 

One  o'clock !  Nay,  then,  if  the  dinner-bell  begins  to  speak, 
I  may  as  well  hold  my  peace.  Here  comes  a  pretty  young  girl 
of  my  acquaintance,  with  a  large  stone  pitcher  for  me  to  fill. 
May  she  draw  a  husband  while  drawing  her  water,  as  Rachel  did 
of  old  !  "  Hold  out  your  vessel,  my  dear !  There  it  is,  full  to  the 
brim  :  so  now  run  home,  peeping  at  your  sweet  image  in  the 
pitcher  as  you  go ;  and  forget  not  in  a  glass  of  my  own  liquor  to 
drink  *  SUCCESS  TO  THE  TOWN-PUMP  ! ' " 

From  "  Twice-told  Tales." 
12 


178  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 


A     SELECT    PARTY. 

A  MAN  OF  FANCY  made  an  entertainment  at  one  of  his  castles 
in  the  air,  and  invited  a  select  number  of  distinguished  person- 
ages to  favor  him  with  their  presence.  The  mansion,  though  less 
splendid  than  many  that  have  been  situated  in  the  same  region, 
was,  nevertheless,  of  a  magnificence  such  as  is  seldom  witnessed 
by  those  acquainted  only  with  terrestrial  architecture.  Its  strong 
foundations  and  massive  walls  were  quarried  out  of  a  ledge  of 
heavy  and  somber  clouds  which  had  hung  brooding  over  the  earth, 
apparently  as  dense  and  ponderous  as  its  own  granite,  throughout 
a  whole  autumnal  day.  Perceiving  that  the  general  effect  was 
gloomy,  —  so  that  the  airy  castle  looked  like  a  feudal  fortress,  or 
a  monastery  of  the  middle  ages,  or  a  state-prison  of  our  own 
times,  rather  than  the  home  of  pleasure  and  repose  which  he  in- 
tended it  to  be,  —  the  owner,  regardless  of  expense,  resolved  to 
gild  the  exterior  from  top  to  bottom.  Fortunately,  there  was  just 
then  a  flood  of  evening  sunshine  in  the  air.  This  being  gathered 
up,  and  poured  abundantly  upon  the  roof  and  walls,  imbued  them 
with  a  kind  of  solemn  cheerfulness;  while  the  cupolas  and  pinna- 
cles were  made  to  glitter  with  the  purest  gold,  and  all  the  hun- 
dred windows  gleamed  with  a  glad  light,  as  if  the  edifice  itself 
were  rejoicing  in  its  heart.  And  now,  if  the  people  of  the  lower 
world  chanced  to  be  looking  upward  out  of  the  turmoil  of  their 
petty  perplexities,  they  probably  mistook  the  castle  in  the  air  for 
a  heap  of  sunset  clouds,  to  which  the  magic  of  light  and  shade 
had  imparted  the  aspect  of  a  fantastically-constructed  mansion. 
To  such  beholders  it  was  unreal,  because  they  lacked  the  imagi- 
native faith.  Had  they  been  worthy  to  pass  within  its  portal, 
they  would  have  recognized  the  truth,  that  the  dominions  which 
the  spirit  conquers  for  itself  among  unrealities  become  a  thousand 
times  more  real  than  the  earth  whereon  they  stamp  their  feet, 
saying,  "This  is  solid  and  substantial:  this  may  be  called  a 
fact." 

At  the  appointed  hour,  the  host  stood  in  his  great  saloon  to  re- 
ceive the  company.  It  was  a  vast  and  noble  room,  the  vaulted 
ceiling  of  which  was  supported  by  double  rows  of  gigantic  pillars 
that  had  been  hewn  entire  out  of  masses  of  variegated  clouds. 
So  brilliantly  were  they  polished,  and  so  exquisitely  wrought  by 
the  sculptor's  skill,  as  to  resemble  the  finest  specimens  of  emerald, 
porphyry,  opal,  and  chrysolite;  thus  producing  a  delicate  richness 
of  effect  which  their  immense  size  rendered  not  incompatible  with 
grandeur.  To  each  of  these  pillars  a  meteor  was  suspended. 
Thousands  of  these  ethereal  lusters  are  continually  wandering 
about  the  firmament,  burning  out  to  waste,  yet  capable  of  impart- 


NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE.  179 

ing  a  useful  radiance  to  any  person  who  has  the  art  of  converting 
them  to  domestic  purposes.  As  managed  in  the  saloon,  they  are 
far  more  economical  than  ordinary  lamplight.  Such,  however, 
wras  the  intensity  of  their  blaze,  that  it  had  been  found  expedient 
to  cover  each  meteor  with  a  globe  of  evening-mist;  thereby  muf- 
fling the  too-potent  glow,  and  soothing  it  into  a  mild  and  com- 
fortable splendor.  It  was  like  the  brilliancy  of  a  powerful  yet 
chastened  imagination,  —  a  light  which  seemed  to  hide  whatever 
was  unworthy  to  be  noticed,  and  give  effect  to  every  beautiful 
and  noble  attribute.  The  guests,  therefore,  as  they  advanced  up 
the  center  of  the  saloon,  appeared  to  better  advantage  than  ever 
before  in  their  lives. 

The  first  that  entered,  with  old-fashioned  punctuality,  was  a 
venerable  figure  in  the  costume  of  bj'gone  days,  with  his  white 
hair  flowing  down  over  his  shoulders,  and  a  reverend  beard  upon 
his  breast.  He  leaned  upon  a  staff,  the  tremulous  stroke  of  which, 
as  he  set  it  carefully  upon  the  floor,  re-echoed  through  the  saloon 
at  every  footstep.  Recognizing  at  once  this  celebrated  personage, 
whom  it  had  cost  him  a  vast  deal  of  trouble  and  research  to  dis- 
cover, the  host  advanced  nearly  three-fourths  of  the  distance 
down  between  the  pillars  to  meet  and  welcome  him. 

"Venerable  sir,"  said  the  Man  of  Fancy,  bending  to  the  floor, 
"  the  honor  of  this  visit  would  never  be  forgotten  were  my  term 
of  existence  to  be  as  happily  prolonged  as  your  own." 

The  old  gentleman  received  the  compliment  with  gracious  con- 
descension. He  then  thrust  up  his  spectacles  over  his  forehead, 
and  appeared  to  take  a  critical  survey  of  the  saloon. 

"  Never  within  my  recollection,"  observed  he,  "  have  I  entered 
a  more  spacious  and  noble  hall.  But  are  you  sure  that  it  is  built 
of  solid  materials,  and  that  the  structure  will  be  permanent  ?  " 

"  Oh,  never  fear,  my  venerable  friend  !  "  replied  the  host.  "In 
reference  to  a  lifetime  like  your  own,  it  is  true,  my  castle  may 
well  be  called  a  temporary  edifice ;  but  it  will  endure  long 
enough  to  answer  all  the  purposes  for  which  it  was  erected." 

But  we  forget  that  the  reader  has  not  yet  been  made  acquainted 
with  the  guest.  It  was  no  other  than  that  universally-accredited 
character  so  constantly  referred  to  in  all  seasons  of  intense  cold 
or  heat;  he  that  remembers  the  hot  Sunday  and  the  cold  Friday; 
the  witness  of  a  past  age,  whose  negative  reminiscences  find  their 
way  into  every  newspaper,  yet  whose  antiquated  and  dusky  abode 
is  so  overshadowed  by  accumulated  years,  and  crowded  back  by 
modern  edifices,  that  none  but  the  Man  of  Fancy  could  have 
discovered  it:  it  was,  in  short,  the  twin-brother  of  Time,  and 
great-grandsire  of  Mankind,  and  hand-and-glove  associate  of  all 
forgotten  men  and  things,  —  the  Oldest  Inhabitant,  The  host 
would  willingly  have  drawn  him  into  conversation,  but  succeeded 


180  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

only  in  eliciting  a  few  remarks  as  to  the  oppressive  atmosphere  of 
this  present  summer  evening  compared  with  one  which  the  guest 
had  experienced  about  fourscore  years  ago.  The  old  gentleman, 
in  fact,  was  a  good  deal  overcome ."  by  his  journey  among  the 
clouds  ;  which,  to  a  frame  so  earth-incrusted  by  long  continuance 
in  a  lower  region,  was  unavoidably  more  fatiguing  than  to 
younger  spirits.  He  was  therefore  conducted  to  an  easy-chair, 
well  cushioned,  and  stuffed  with  vaporous  softness,  and  left  to  take 
a  little  repose. 

The  Man  of  Fancy  now  discerned  another  guest,  who  stood  so 
quietly  in  the  shadow  "of  one  of  the  pillars,  that  he  might  easily 
have  been  overlooked. 

"  My  dear  sir,"  exclaimed  the  host,  grasping  him  warmly  by 
the  hand,  "  allow  me  to  greet  you  as  the  hero  of  the  evening. 
Pray  do  not  take  it  as  an  empty  compliment ;  for,  if  there  were 
not  another  guest  in  my  castle,  it  would  be  entirely  pervaded  with 
your  presence." 

"  I  thank  you,"  answered  the  unpretending  stranger.  "  But, 
though  you  happened  to  overlook  me,  I  have  not  just  arrived.  I 
came  very  early;  and,  with  your  permission,  shall  remain  after 
the  rest  of  the  company  have  retired." 

And  who  does  the  reader  imagine  was  this  unobtrusive  guest  ? 
It  was  the  famous  performer  of  acknowledged  impossibilities,  — 
a  character  of  superhuman  capacity  and  virtue,  and,  if  his  ene- 
mies are  to  be  credited,  of  no  less  remarkable  weaknesses  and 
defects.  With  a  generosity  with  which  he  alone  sets  us  an  ex- 
ample, we  will  glance  merely  at  his  nobler  attributes.  He  it  is, 
then,  who  prefers  the  interests  of  others  to  his  own,  and  a  hum- 
ble station  to  an  exalted  one.  Careless  of  fashion,  custom,  the 
opinions  of  men,  and  the  influence  of  the  press,  he  assimilates  his 
life  to  the  standard  of  ideal  rectitude,  and  thus  proves  himself 
the  one  independent  citizen  of  our  free  country.  In  point  of 
ability,  many  people  declare  him  to  be  the  only  mathematician 
capable  of  squaring  the  circle ;  the  only  mechanic  acquainted 
with  the  principle  of  perpetual  motion  ;  the  only  scientific  philos- 
opher who  can  compel  water  to  run  up  hill;  the  only  writer  of 
the  age  whose  genius  is  equal  to  the  production  of  an  epic  poem  ; 
and  finally,  so  various  are  his  accomplishments,  the  only  professor 
of  gymnastics  who  has  succeeded  in  jumping  down  his  own  throat. 
With  all  these  talents,  however,  he  is  so  far  from  being  considered 
a  member  of  good  society,  that  it  is  the  severest  censure  of  any 
fashionable  assemblage  to  affirm  that  this  remarkable  individual 
was  present.  Public  orators,  lecturers,  and  theatrical  performers 
particularly,  eschew  his  company.  For  especial  reasons,  we  are 
not  at  liberty  to  disclose  his  name,  and  shall  mention  only  one 
other  trait,  —  a  most  singular  phenomenon  in  natural  philosophy, 


NATHANIEL   HAWTHORNE.  181 

—  that,  when  he  happens  to  cast  his  eyes  upon  «a  looking-glass, 
he  beholds  nobody  reflected  there. 

Several  other  guests  now  made  their  appearance ;  and  among 
them,  chattering  with  immense  volubility,  a  brisk  little  gentleman 
of  universal  vogue  in  private  society,  and  not  unknown  in  the 
public  journals  under  the  title  of  Monsieur  On-Dit.  The  name 
would  seem  to  indicate  a  Frenchman ;  but,  whatever  be  his  coun- 
try, he  is  thoroughly  versed  in  all  the  languages  of  the  day,  and 
can  express  himself  quite  as  much  to  the  purpose  in  English  as 
in  any  other  tongue.  No  sooner  were  the  ceremonies  of  saluta- 
tion over  than  this  talkative  little  person  put  his  mouth  to  the 
host's  ear,  and  whispered  three  secrets  of  state,  an  important 
piece  of  commercial  intelligence,  and  a  rich  item  of  fashionable 
scandal.  He  then  assured  the  Man  of  Fancy  that  he  would  not 
fail  to  circulate  in  the  society  of  the  lower  world  a  minute  descrip- 
tion of  this  magnificent  castle  in  the  air,  and  of  the  festivities  at 
which  he  had  the  honor  to  be  a  guest.  So  saying,  Monsieur 
On-Dit  made  his  bow,  and  hurried  from  one  to  another  of  the 
company,  with  all  of  whom  he  seemed  to  be  acquainted,  and  to 
possess  some  topic  of  interest  or  amusement  for  every  individual. 
Coming  at  last  to  the  Oldest  Inhabitant,  who  was  slumbering 
comfortably  in  the  easy-chair,  he  applied  his  mouth  to  that  ven- 
erable ear. 

"What  do  you  say?"  cried  the  old  gentleman,  starting  from 
his  nap,  and  putting  up  his  hand  to  serve  the  purpose  of  an  ear- 
trumpet. 

Monsieur  On-Dit  went  forward  again,  and  repeated  his  commu- 
nication. 

"  Never  within  my  memory,"  exclaimed  the  Oldest  Inhabitant, 
lifting  his  hands  in  astonishment,  "has  so  remarkable  an  incident 
been  heard  of." 

Now  came  in  the  Clerk  of  the  Weather,  who  had  been  invited 
out  of  deference  to  his  official  station ;  although  the  host  was  well 
aware  that  his  conversation  was  likely  to  contribute  but  little  to 
the  general  enjoyment.  He  soon,  indeed,  got  into  a  corner  with 
his  acquaintance  of  long  ago,  the  Oldest  Inhabitant,  and  began 
to  compare  notes  with  him  in  reference  to  the  great  storms,  gales 
of  wind,  and  other  atmospherical  facts,  that  had  occurred  during 
a  century  past.  It  rejoiced  the  Man  of  Fancy  that  his  venerable 
and  much-respected  guest  had  met  with  so  congenial  an  associate. 
Entreating  them  both  to  make  themselves  perfectly  at  home,  he 
now  turned  to  receive  the  Wandering  Jew.  This  personage1, 
however,  had  latterly  grown  so  common,  by  mingling  in  all  sorts 
of  societjr,  and  appearing  at  the  beck  of  every  entertainer,  that 
he  could  hardly  be  deemed  a  proper  guest  in  a  very  exclusive  cir- 
cle. Besides,  being  covered  with  dust  from  his  continual  wander- 


182  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

ings  along  the  highways  of  the  world,  he  really  looked  out  of 
place  in  a  dress-party  :  so  that  the  host  felt  relieved  of  an  incom- 
inodity  when  the  restless  individual  in  question,  after  a  brief  stay, 
took  his  departure  on  a  ramble  toward  Oregon. 

The  portal  was  now  thronged  by  a  crowd  of  shadowy  people 
witli  whom  the  Man  of  Fancy  had  been  acquainted  in  his  vision- 
ary youth.  He  had  invited  them  hither  for  the  sake  of  observing 
how  they  would  compare,  whether  advantageously  or  otherwise, 
with  the  real  characters  to  whom  his  maturer  life  had  introduced 
him.  They  were  beings  of  crude  imagination,  such  as  glide  be- 
fore a  young  man's  eye,  and  pretend  to  be  actual  inhabitants  of 
the  earth,  — the  wise  and  witty  with  whom  he  would  hereafter  hold 
intercourse  ;  the  generous  and  heroic  friends  whose  devotion  would 
be  requited  with  his  own  ;  the  beautiful  dream-woman  who  would 
become  the  helpmate  of  his  human  toils  and  sorrows,  and  at  once 
the  source  and  partaker  of  his  happiness.  Alas !  it  is  not  good 
for  the  full-grown  man  to  look  too  closely  at  these  old  acquaint- 
ances, but  rather  to  reverence  them  at  a  distance  through  the 
medium  of  years  that  have  gathered  duskily  between.  There 
was  something  laughably  untrue  in  their  pompous  stride  and  ex- 
aggerated sentiment:  they  were  neither  human,  nor  tolerable 
likenesses  of  humanity,  but  fantastic  maskers,  rendering  heroism 
and  nature  alike  ridiculous  by  the  grave  absurdit}1  of  their  pre- 
tensions to  such  attributes.  And  as  for  the  peerless  Dream-Lady, 
behold  !  there  advanced  up  the  saloon,  with  a  movement  like  a 
jointed  doll,  a  sort  of  wax  figure  of  an  angel,  —  a  creature  as  cold 
as  moonshine;  an  artifice  in  petticoats,  with  an  intellect  of  pretty 
phrases,  and  only  the  semblance  of  a  heart,  yet  in  all  these  par- 
ticulars the  true  type  of  a  young  man's  imaginary  mistress. 
Hardly  could  the  host's  punctilious  courtesy  restrain  a  smile  as 
he  paid  his  respects  to  this  unreality,  and  met  the  sentimental 
glance  with  which  the  Dream  sought  to  remind  him  of  their  for- 
mer love-passages. 

"  No,  no,  fair  lady,"  murmured  he  betwixt  sighing  and  smil- 
ing :  "my  taste  is  changed.  I  have  learned  to  love  what  Nature 
makes,  better  than  my  own  creations  in  the  guise  of  woman- 
hood." 

"Ah,  false  one!"  shrieked  the  Dream-Lady,  pretending  to  faint, 
but  dissolving  into  thin  air,  out  of  which  came  the  deplorable 
murmur  of  her  voice,  "your  inconstancy  has  annihilated  me." 

"So  be  it,"  said  the  cruel  Man  of  Fancy  to  himself;  "and  a 
good  riddance  too." 

Together  with  these  shadows,  and  from  the  same  region,  there 
came  an  uninvited  multitude  of  shapes,  which  at  any  time  during 
his  life  had  tormented  the  Man  of  Fancy  in  his  moods  of  morbid 
melancholy,  or  had  haunted  hi  in  in  the  delirium  of  fever.  The 


NATHANIEL   HAWTHORNE.  183 

walls  of  his  castle  in  the  air  were  not  dense  enough  to  keep  them 
out;  nor  would  the  strongest  of  earthly  architecture  have  availed 
to  their  exclusion.  Here  were  those  forms  of  dim  terror  which 
had  beset  him  at  the  entrance  of  life,  waging  warfare  with  his 
hopes ;  here  were  strange  uglinesses  of  earlier  date,  such  as  haunt 
children  in  the  nightmare.  He  was  particularly  startled  by  the 
vision  of  a  deformed  old  black  woman,  whom  he  imagined  as  lurk- 
ing in  the  garret  of  his  native  home,  arid  who,  when  he  was  an  in- 
fant, had  once  come  to  his  bedside  and  grinned  at  him  in  the  crisis 
of  a  scarlet-fever.  This  same  black  shadow,  with  others  almost 
as  hideous,  now  glided  among  the  pillars  of  the  magnificent  saloon, 
grinning  recognition,  until  the  man  shuddered  anew  at  the  forgot- 
ten terrors  of  his  childhood.  It  amused  him,  however,  to  observe 
the  black  woman,  with  the  mischievous  caprice  peculiar  to  such 
beings,  steal  up  to  the  chair  of  the  Oldest  Inhabitant,  and  peep 
into  his  half-dreamy  mind. 

"Never  within  my  memory,"  muttered  that  venerable  person- 
age, aghast,  "did  I  see  such  a  face." 

Almost  immediately  after  the  unrealities  just  described,  arrived 
a  number  of  guests  whom  incredulous  readers  may  be  inclined  to 
rank  equally  among  creatures  of  imagination.  The  most  note- 
worthy were  an  incorruptible  patriot,  a  scholar  without  pedantry, 
a  priest  without  worldly  ambition,  and  a  beautiful  woman  without 
pride  or  coquetry,  a  married  pair  whose  life  had  never  been  dis- 
turbed by  incongruity  of  feeling,  a  reformer  uiitrammeled  by  his 
theories,  and  a  poet  who  felt  no  jealous}7  toward  other  votaries 
of  the  lyre.  In  truth,  however,  the  host  was  not  one  of  the  cyn- 
ics who  consider  these  patterns  of  excellence  without  the  fatal 
flaw  such  rarities  in  the  world;  and  he  had  invited  them  to  his 
select  party  chiefty  out  of  humble  deference  to  the  judgment  of 
society,  which  pronounces  them  almost  impossible  to  be  met  with. 

"  In  my  younger  days,"  observed  the  Oldest  Inhabitant,  "  such 
characters  might  be  seen  at  the  corner  of  every  street." 

Be  that  as  it  might,  these  specimens  of  perfection  proved  to  be 
not  half  so  entertaining  companions  as  people  with  the  ordinary 
allowance  of  faults. 

But  now  appeared  a  stranger,  whom  the  host  had  no  sooner 
recognized,  than,  with  an  abundance  of  courtesy  uiilavished  on 
any  other,  he  hastened  down  the  whole  length  of  the  saloon  in 
order  to  pay  him  emphatic  honor.  Yet  he  was  a  young  man,  in 
poor  attire,  with  no  insignia  of  rank  or  acknowledged  eminence, 
nor  any  thing  to  distinguish  him  among  the  crowd,  except  a  high, 
white  forehead,  beneath  which  a  pair  of  deepest  eyes  were  glow- 
ing with  warm  light.  It  was  such  a  light  as  never  illuminates 
the  earth  save  when  a  great  heart  burns  as  the  household  fire  of 
a  grand  intellect.  And  who  was  he  ?  —  who  but  the  Master 


184  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

Genius,  for  whom  our  country  is  looking  anxiously  into  the  mist 
of  Time,  as  destined  to  fulfil  the  great  mission  of  creating  an 
American  literature,  hewing  it,  as  it  were,  out  of  the  unwrought 
granite  of  our  intellectual  quarries  ?  From  him,  whether  molded 
in  the  form  of  an  epic  poem,  or  assuming  a  guise  altogether  new, 
as  the  spirit  itself  may  determine,  we  are  to  receive  our  first  great 
original  work,  which  shall  do  all  that  remains  to  be  achieved  for 
our  glory  among  the  nations.  How  this  child  of  a  mighty  destiny 
had  been  discovered  by  the  Man  of  Fancy,  it  is  of  little  conse- 
quence to  mention.  Suffice  it  that  he  dwells  as  yet  unhonored 
among  men,  unrecognized  by  those  who  have  known  him  from  his 
cradle.  The  noble  countenance,  which  should  be  distinguished 
by  a  halo  diffused  around  it,  passes  daily  amid  the  throng  of  peo- 
ple, toiling,  and  troubling  themselves  about  the  trifles  of  a  mo- 
ment; and  none  pay  reverence  to  the  worker  of  immortality. 
Nor  does  it  matter  much  to  him,  in  his  triumph  over  all  the  ages, 
though  a  generation  or  two  of  his  own  times  shall  do  themselves 
the  wrong  to  disregard  him. 

By  this  time,  Monsieur  On-Dit  had  caught  up  the  stranger's 
name  and  destiny,  and  was  busily  whispering  the  intelligence 
among  the  other  guests. 

"  Pshaw ! "  said  one  :  "  there  can  never  be  an  American 
genius." 

"Pish!"  cried  another:  "we  have  already  as  good  poets  as 
any  in  the  world.  For  my  part,  I  desire  to  see  no  better." 

And  the  Oldest  Inhabitant,  when  it  was  proposed  to  introduce 
him  to  the  Master  Genius,  begged  to  be  excused;  observing,  that 
a  man  who  had  been  honored  with  the  acquaintance  of  Dwight 
and  Freneau  and  Joel  Barlow  might  be  allowed  a  little  austerity 
of  taste. 

The  saloon  was  now  fast  filling  up  by  the  arrival  of  other 
remarkable  characters,  among  whom  were  noticed  Davy  Jones, 
the  distinguished  nautical  personage,  and  a  rude,  carelessly- 
dressed,  harum-scarum  sort  of  elderly  fellow,  known  by  the  nick- 
name of  Old  Harry.  The  latter,  however,  after  being  shown  to  a 
dressing-room,  re-appeared  with  his  gray  hair  nicely  combed,  his 
clothes  brushed,  a  clean  dicky  on  his  neck,  and  altogether  so  changed 
in  aspect  as  to  merit  the  more  respectful  appellation  of  Venerable 
Henry.  John  Doe  and  Richard  Roe  came  arm  in  arm,  accompa- 
nied by  a  man  of  straw,  a  fictitious  indorser,  and  several  persons 
who  had  no  existence  except  as  voters  in  closely-contested  elections. 
The  celebrated  Seatsfield,  who  now  entered,  was  at  first  supposed 
to  belong  to  the  same  brotherhood,  until  he  made  it  apparent  that 
he  was  a  real  man  of  flesh  and  blood,  and  had  his  earthly  domicile 
in  Germany.  Among  the  latest  coiners,  as  might  reasonably  be 
expected,  arrived  a  guest  from  the  Far  Future. 


NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE.  185 

"  Do  you  know  him  ?  do  you  know  him  ?  "  whispered  Mon- 
sieur On-Dit,  who  seemed  to  be  acquainted  with  everybody. 
"  He  is  the  representative  of  posterity,  —  the  man  of  an  age  to 
come." 

"  And  how  came  he  here  ?  "  asked  a  figure  who  was  evidently 
the  prototype  of  the  fashion-plate  in  a  magazine,  and  might  be 
taken  to  represent  the  vanities  of  the  passing  moment.  "The 
fellow  infringes  upon  our  rights  by  coming  before  his  time." 

"  But  you  forget  where  we  are,"  answered  the  Man  of  Fancy, 
who  overheard  the  remark.  "  The  lower  earth,  it  is  true,  will  be 
forbidden  ground  to  him  for  many  long  years  hence ;  but  a  castle 
in  the  air  is  a  sort  of  No  Man's  Land,  where  posterity  may  make 
acquaintance  with  us  on  equal  terms." 

No  sooner  was  his  identity  known  than  a  throng  of  guests 
gathered  about  Posterity,  all  expressing  the  most  generous  in- 
terest in  his  welfare,  and  many  boasting  of  the  sacrifices  which 
they  had  made,  or  were  willing  to  make,  in  his  behalf.  Some, 
with  as  much  secrecy  as  possible,  desired  his  judgment  upon 
certain  copies  of  verses  or  great  manuscript  rolls  of  prose ;  others 
accosted  him  with  the  familiarity  of  old  friends,  taking  it  for 
granted  that  he  was  perfectly  cognizant  of  their  names  and  char- 
acters. At  length,  finding  himself  thus  beset,  Posterity  was  put 
quite  beside  his  patience. 

(t  Gentlemen,  my  good  friends,"  cried  he,  breaking  loose  from  a 
misty  poet  who  strove  to  hold  him  by  the  button,  "  I  pray  you 
to  attend  to  your  own  business,  and  leave  me  to  take  care  of 
mine !  I  expect  to  owe  you  nothing,  unless  it  be  certain 
national  debts,  and  other  encumbrances  and  impediments,  physi- 
cal and  moral,  which  I  shall  find  it  troublesome  enough  to  remove 
from  my  path.  As  to  your  verses,  pray  send  them  to  your  con- 
temporaries. Your  names  are  as  strange  to  me  as  your  faces ; 
and,  even  were  it  otherwise,  —  let  me  whisper  you  a  secret,  —  the 
cold,  icy  memory  which  one  generation  may  retain  of  another  is 
but  a  poor  recompense  to  barter  life  for.  Yet,  if  your  heart  is 
set  on  being  known  to  me,  the  surest,  the  only  method  is  to  live 
truly  and  wisely  for  your  own  age,  whereby,  if  the  native  force 
be  in  you,  you  may  likewise  live  for  posterity." 

"  It  is  nonsense,"  murmured  the  Oldest  Inhabitant,  who,  as  a 
man  of  the  past,  felt  jealous  that  all  notice  should  be  withdrawn 
from  himself  to  be  lavished  on  the  future,  —  "  sheer  nonsense,  to 
waste  so  much  thought  on  what  only  is  to  be." 

To  divert  the  minds  of  his  guests,  who  were  considerably 
abashed  by  this  little  incident,  the  Man  of  Fancy  led  them 
through  several  apartments  of  the  castle,  receiving  their  compli- 
ments upon  the  taste  and  varied  magnificence  that  were  displayed 
in  each.  One  of  these  rooms  was  filled  with  moonlight,  which 


186  ENGLISPI   LITERATURE. 

(lid  not  enter  through  the  window,  hut  was  the  aggregate  of  till 
the  moonshine  that  is  scattered  around  the  earth  on  a  summer 
night  while  no  eyes  are  awake  to  enjoy  its  beauty.  Airy  spirits 
had  gathered  it  up,  wherever  they  found  it  gleaming  on  the  broad 
bosom  of  a  lake,  or  silvering  the  meanders  of  a  stream,  or  glim- 
mering among  the  wind-stirred  boughs  of  a  wood,  and  had  gar- 
nered it  in  this  one  spacious  hall.  Along  the  walls,  illuminated 
by  the  mild  intensity  of  the  moonshine,  stood  a  multitude  of 
ideal  statues,  the  original  conception  of  the  great  works  of 
ancient  or  modern  art,  which  the  sculptors  did  but  imperfectly 
succeed  in  putting  into  marble  :  for  it  is  not  to  be  supposed  that 
the  pure  idea  of  an  immortal  creation  ceases  to  exist ;  it  is  only 
necessary  to  know  where  they  are  deposited  in  order  to  obtain 
possession  of  them.  In  the  alcoves  of  another  vast  apartment 
was  arranged  a  splendid  library,  the  volumes  of  which  were  in- 
estimable, because  they  consisted,  not  of  actual  performances,  but 
of  the  works  which  the  authors  onl\T  planned,  without  ever  find- 
ing the  happy  season  to  achieve  them.  To  take  familiar  in- 
stances, here  were  the  untold  tales  of  Chaucer's  "Canterbury 
Pilgrims,"  the  unwritten  cantos  of  the  "  Fairy  Queen,"  the 
conclusion  of  Coleridge's  "  Christabel,"  and  the  whole  of  Dry- 
den's  projected  epic  on  the  subject  of  King  Arthur.  The  shelves 
were  crowded ;  for  it  would  not  be  too  much  to  affirm  that  every 
author  has  imagined  and  shaped  out  in  his  thought  more  and 
far  better  works  than  those  which  actually  proceeded  from  his 
pen.  And  here,  likewise,  were  the  unrealized  conceptions  of 
youthful  poets  who  died  of  the  very  strength  of  their  own  genius, 
before  the  world  had  caught  one  inspired  murmur  from  their  lips. 

When  the  peculiarities  of  the  library  and  statue  gallery  were 
explained  to  the  Oldest  Inhabitant,  he  appeared  infinitely  per- 
plexed, and  exclaimed  with  more  energy  than  usual,  that  he  had 
never  heard  of  such  a  thing  within  his  memory,  and,  moreover, 
did  not  at  all  understand  how  it  could  be. 

"  But  my  brain,  I  think,"  said  the  good  old  gentleman,  "  is 
getting  not  so  clear  as  it  used  to  be.  You  young  folks,  I  suppose, 
can  see  your  way  through  these  strange  matters.  For  my  part, 
I  give  it  up." 

"And  so  do  I,"  muttered  the  Old  Many.  "It  is  enough  to 
puzzle  the  ahem  !  " 

Making  as  little  reply  as  possible  to  these  observations,  the 
Man  of  Fancy  preceded  the  company  to  another  noble  saloon,  the 
pillars  of  which  were  solid  golden  sunbeams  taken  out  of  the  sky 
in  the  first  hour  in  the  morning.  Thus,  as  they  retained  all 
their  living  luster,  the  room  was  filled  with  the  most  cheerful 
radiance  imaginable,  yet  not  too  dazzling  to  be  borne  with  com- 
fort and  delight.  The  windows  were  beautifully  adorned  with 


NATHANIEL   HAWTHORNE.  187 

curtains  made  of  the  many-colored  clouds  of  sunrise,  all  imbued 
with  virgin  light,  and  hanging  in  magnificent  festoons  from  the 
ceiling  to  the  floor.  Moreover,  there  were  fragments  of  rainbows 
scattered  through  the  room:  so  that  the  guests,  astonished  at 
one  another,  reciprocally  saw  their  heads  made  glorious  by  the 
seven  primary  hues;  or,  if  they  chose,  —  as  who  would  not?  — 
they  could  grasp  a  rainbow  in  the  air,  and  convert  it  to  their  own 
apparel  and  adornment.  But  the  morning  light  and  scattered 
rainbows  were  only  a  type  and  symbol  of  the  real  wonders  of  the 
apartment.  By  an  influence  akin  to  magic,  yet  perfectly  natural, 
whatever  means  and  opportunities  of  joy  are  neglected  in  the 
lower  world  had  been  carefully  gathered  up  and  deposited  in  the 
saloon  of  morning  sunshine.  As  may  well  be  conceived,  there- 
fore, there  was  material  enough  to  supply,  not  merely  a  joyous 
evening,  but  also  a  happy  lifetime,  to  more  than  as  many  people 
as  that  spacious  apartment  could  contain.  The  company  seemed 
to  renew  their  youth  ;  while  that  pattern  and  proverbial  standard 
of  innocence,  the  child  unborn,  frolicked  to  and  fro  among  them, 
communicating  his  own  unwrinkled  gayety  to  all  who  had  the 
good  fortune  to  witness  his  gambols. 

"My  honored  friends,"  said  the  Man  of  Fancy  after  they  had 
enjoyed  themselves  a  while,  "  I  am  now  to  request  your  presence 
in  the  banque  ting-hall,  where  a  slight  collation  is  awaiting  you." 

"  Ah,  well  said ! "  ejaculated  a  cadaverous  figure,  who  had 
been  invited  for  no  other  reason  than  that  he  was  pretty  con- 
stantly in  the  habit  of  dining  with  Duke  Humphrey.  "  I  was 
beginning  to  wonder  whether  a  castle  in  the  air  were  provided 
with  a  kitchen." 

It  was  curious,  in  truth,  to  see  how  instantly  the  guests  were 
diverted  from  the  high  moral  enjoyments,  which  they  had  been 
tasting  with  so  much,  apparent  zest,  by  a  suggestion  of  the  more 
solid  as  well  as  liquid  delights  of  the  festive  board.  They 
thronged  eagerly  in  the  rear  of  the  host,  who  now  ushered  them 
into  a  lofty  and  extensive  hall,  from  end  to  end  of  which  was 
arranged  a  table,  glittering  all  over  with  innumerable  dishes  and 
drinking-vessels  of  gold.  It  is  an  uncertain  point  whether  these 
rich  articles  of  place  were  made  for  the  occasion  out  of  molten 
sunbeams,  or  recovered  from  the  wrecks  of  the  Spanish  galleons 
that  had  lain  for  ages  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea.  The  upper  end 
of  the  table  was  overshadowed  by  a  canopy,  beneath  which  was 
placed  a  chair  of  elaborate  magnificence,  which  the  host  himself 
declined  to  occupy,  and  besought  his  guests  to  assign  it  to  the 
worthiest  among  them.  As  a  suitable  homage  to  his  incalculable 
antiquity  and  eminent  distinction,  the  post  of  honor  was  at  first 
tendered  to  the  Oldest  Inhabitant.  He,  however,  eschewed  it, 
and  requested  the  favor  of  a  bowl  of  gruel  at  a  side-table,  where 


188  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

he  could  refresh  himself  with  a  quiet  nap.  There  was  some  little 
hesitation  as  to  the  next  candidate,  until  Posterity  took  the  Master 
Genius  of  our  country  by  the  hand,  and  led  him  to  the  chair  of  state 
heneath  the  princely  canopy.  When  once  they  beheld  him  in  his 
true  place,  the  company  acknowledged  the  justice  of  the  selection 
by  a  long  thunder-roll  of  vehement  applause. 

Then  was  served  up  a  banquet,  combining,  if  not  all  the  deli- 
cacies of  the  season,  yet  all  the  rarities  which  careful  purveyors 
had  met  with  in  the  flesh,  fish,  and  vegetable  markets  of  the  land 
of  Nowhere.  The  bill  of  fare  being  unfortunately  lost,  we  can 
only  mention  a  phoenix  roasted  in  its  own  flames,  cold  potted 
birds-of-paradise,  ice-creams  from  the  Milky  Way,  and  whip- 
syllabubs  and  flummery  from  the  Paradise  of  Fools,  whereof  there 
was  a  very  great  consumption.  As  for  drinkables,  the  temper- 
ance people  contented  themselves  with  water  as  usual,  but  it  was 
the  water  of  the  Fountain  of  Youth ;  the  ladies  sipped  Nepenthe  ; 
the  love-lorn,  the  care-worn,  and  the  sorrow-stricken  were  supplied 
with  brimming  goblets  of  Lethe ;  and  it  was  shrewdly  conjec- 
tured that  a  certain  golden  vase,  from  which  only  the  more  dis- 
tinguished guests  were  invited  to  partake,  contained  nectar  that 
had  been  mellowing  ever  since  the  day  of  classical  mythology. 
The  cloth  being  removed,  the  company,  as  usual,  grew  eloquent 
over  their  liquor,  and  delivered  themselves  of  a  succession  of 
brilliant  speeches ;  the  task  of  reporting  which  we  resign  to  the 
more  adequate  ability  of  Counselor  Gill,  whose  indispensable 
co-operation  the  Man  of  Fancy  had  taken  the  precaution  to 
secure. 

When  the  festivity  of  the  banquet  was  at  its  most  ethereal 
point,  the  Clerk  of  the  Weather  was  observed  to  steal  from  the 
table,  and  thrust  his  head  between  the  purple  and  golden  curtains 
of  one  of  the  windows. 

••  My  fellow-guests,"  he  remarked  aloud,  after  carefully  noting 
the  signs  of  the  night,  "  I  advise  such  of  you  as  live  at  a  distance 
to  be  going  as  soon  as  possible ;  for  a  thunder-storm  is  certainly 
at  hand." 

"  Mercy  on  me  ! "  cried  Mother  Carey,  who  had  left  her  brood 
of  chickens,  and  come  hither  in  gossamer  drapery,  with  pink  silk 
stockings.  "  How  shall  I  ever  get  home  ?  " 

All  now  was  confusion  and  hasty  departure,  with  but  little 
superfluous  leave-taking.  The  Oldest  Inhabitant,  however,  true 
to  the  rule  of  those  long-past  days  in  which  his  courtesy  had 
been  studied,  paused  on  the  threshold  of  the  meteor-lighted  hall 
to  express  his  vast  satisfaction  at  the  entertainment. 

"Never  within  my  memory,"  observed  the  gracious  old  gen- 
tleman, "has  it  been  my  good  fortune  to  spend  a  pleasanter 
evening,  or  in  a  more  select  society." 


THEOLOGY,    METAPHYSICS,    ETC.  189 

The  wind  here  took  his  breath  away,  whirled  his  three-cornered 
hat  into  infinite  space,  and  drowned  what  further  compliments 
it  had  been  his  purpose  to  bestow.  Many  of  the  company  had 
bespoken  will-o'-the-wisps  to  convey  them  home  ;  and  the  host,  in 
his  general  beneficence,  had  engaged  the  Man  in  the  Moon,  with  an 
immense  horn  lantern,  to  be  the  guide  of  such  desolate  spinsters 
as  could  do  no  better  for  themselves.  But  a  blast  of  the  rising 
tempest  blew  out  all  their  lights  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye. 
How,  in  the  darkness  that  ensued,  the  guests  contrived  to  get 
back  to  earth,  or  whether  the  greater  part  of  them  contrived  to 
get  back  at  all,  or  are  still  wandering  among  clouds,  mists,  and 
puffs  of  tempestuous  wind,  bruised  by  the  beams  and  rafters  of 
the  overthrown  castle  in  the  air,  and  deluded  by  all  sorts  of  un- 
realities, are  points  that  concern  themselves  much  more  than  the 
writer  or  the  public.  People  should  think  of  these  matters 
before  they  trust  themselves  on  a  pleasure-party  into  the  realm 
of  Nowhere. 


THEOLOGY,    METAPHYSICS,    RELIGION", 
AND    CHRISTIANITY. 

JONATHAN  EDWARDS.  — 1703-1758.  The  first  and  most  eminent  metaphysi- 
cian of  America.  His  most  famous  work  is  "  The  Freedom  of  the  Will,  and  Moral 
Agency." 

FRANCIS  WAYLAND.  — 1796.  President  of  Brown  University  from  1827  to  1856. 
"Occasional  Discourses;"  "  Moral  Science;  "  ''Political  Economy;"  "Thoughts 
on  Collegiate  Education;"  "Limitations  of  Human  Responsibility;"  "University 
Sermons; "  "  Memoirs  of  Judson ; "  "  Intellectual  Philosophy ; "  "  l^otes  on  the  Prin- 
ciples and  Practices  of  the  Baptists;"  "Discourse  on  the  Life  and  Character  of 
Hon.  Nicholas  Brown;"  "Sermons  to  the  Churches;"  "Priesthood  and  Clergy 
Unknown  to  Christianity." 

WILLIAM  B.'  SPRAGUE. — 1795.  "  Letters  to  a  Daughter ; "."  Letters  from  Europe ; " 
"Lectures  to  Young  People;"  "Lectures  on  Revivals;"  "Hints  on  Christian  In- 
tercourse;" "  Contrast  between  True  and  False  Religion;"  "Life  of  Edward  Dorr 
Griffin;"  "Life  of  President  Dwight;"  "Aids  to  Early  Religion;"  "Words  to  a 
Young  Man's  Conscience;"  "Letters  to  Young  Men;"  "European  Celebrities;" 
"Annals  of  the  American  Pulpit,"  —  invaluable  volumes  of  their  kind. 

EDWARD  ROBINSON.  — 1794.  "Lexicon  of  New  Testament;"  "Biblical  Re- 
searches in  Palestine,"  fourvols.;  "  Harmony  of  the  Four  Gospels  in  Greek;"  "Har- 
mony of  the  Four  Gospels  in  English."  Works  of  much  learning  and  patient 
research. 

JOHN  GORHAM  PALFREY.  — 1796.  "Evidences  of  Christianity,"  two  vols.; 
"Lectures  on  the  Hebrew  Scriptures,"  four  vols. ;"  Duties  of  Private  Life;" 
"  Life  of  William  Palfrey; "  "  A  History  of  New  England." 

WILLIAM  ELLERY  CHANNING.  — 1780-1842.  The  works  of  this  celebrated  divine 
are  published  by  his  nephew  in  six  volumes. 


190  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

LEONARD  BACON,  D.D.  — Born  Feb.  19,  1802,  Detroit,  Mich.  "Thirteen  His- 
torical Discourses  on  the  Completion  of  Two  Hundred  Years  from  the  Beginning 
of  the  First  Church  in  New  Haven; "  also  many  addresses,  essays,  and  articles  lor 
magazines  and  papers.  A  writer  of  great  vigor' of  thought  and  expression. 

MARK  HOPKINS,  D.D.  —  Born  Feb.  4,  1802,  Stockbridge,  Mass.  "Lectures  on 
the  Evidences  of  Christianity,"  1844;  "Miscellaneous  Essays  and  Discourses,"  1847. 

GEORGE  W.  BETIII.-XE,  D.D.  —  Born  March  18,  1805,  New  York.  "The  Fniits 
of  the  Spirit,"  1839;  "Early  Lost,  Early  Saved,"  1846;  "Volume  of  Sermons," 
1-47:  •'Hi-tory  of  a  Penitent,  or  Guide  to  an  Inquirer,"  1847;  "Walton  An- 
gler," 1848;  "'Lays  of  Love  and  Faith,  with  other  Poems,"  1848;  "The  British 
Female  Poets,1'  1848;  and  numerous  orations  before  literary  societies. 

THEODORE  PARKER.  —  Essays  and  Sermons. 

Rev.  ANDREW  P.  PEABODY,  D.D.  —  Born  in  Beverly,  Mass.,  1811.  "  Lectures  on 
Christian  Doctrine,"  1S44;  "Sermons  on  Consolation,"  1847;  besides  many  contri- 
butions to  "  North-American  Review  "  and  "Christian  Examiner." 

Rev.  GEORGE  B.  CHEEVER,  D.D.  — Born  April  17,  1807,  Hallowell,  Me.  This 
vigorous  writer  and  eloquent  preacher  has  published  the  following:  "American 
Commonplace  Book  of  Prose,"  1828;  "American  Commonplace  Book  of  Poetry," 
1829;  "Studies  in  Poetry,  with  Sketches  of  the  Poets,"  1830;  "Selections  from 
Archbishop  Leighton,  with  Introductory  Essay,"  1832;  "God's  Hand  in  America," 
1841;  "The  Argument  for  Punishment  by  Death,"  1842;  "Lectures  on  Pilgrim's 
Progress,"  1843;  "Hierarchical  Lectures,"  1844;  "Wanderings  of  a  Pilgrim  in 
the  Shadow  of  Mont  Blanc  and  the  Yungfran  Alp,"  1846;  "The  Journal  of  the  Pil- 
.grims  at  Plymouth,"  1848;  "The  Hill  Difficulty  and  other  Allegories,"  1849;  "The 
Windings  of  the  River  of  the  Water  of  Life,"  1849;  "Voices  of  Nature  to  her 
Poster-Child,  the  Soul  of  Man,"  1852;  "  Reel  in  a  Bottle,  or  Voyage  to  the  Celestial 
Country,  by  an  Old  Salt,"  1853;  "Right  of  the  Bible  in  our'Common  Schools," 
1854;  "Lectures  on  Cowper,"  1856;  '''The  Powers  of  the  World  to  Come,"  1856; 
"  God  against  Slavery,"  1857 ;  besides  many  contributions  to  papers,  periodicals,  and 
reviews. 

HORACE  BLTSHNELL,  D.D.  —  Born  in  Washington,  Conn.,  1804.  An  able  and 
independent  thinker  in  theology.  Has  published  "God  in  Christ;"  "Views  of 
Christian  Nurture;"  "Christ  in  Theology ;"  "Unconscious  Influence;"  "The 
Day  of  Roads;''  "Barbarism  the  First  Danger;"  "Religious  Music;"  "Politics 
under  the  Law  of  God;"  "Nature  and  the  Supernatural;"  "  The  One  System  of 
God;"  "Noah  Porter;"  "The  Human  Intellect,"  1869. 

ALBERT  BARNES.  —  1798.     "Notes  on  New  Testament;"    "Commentaries  on 
Books  of  the  Old  Testament;"  many  volumes  of  sermons.     Eminent  theologian 
and  an  indefatigable  author. 
Among  others  of  note  are  — 

ANDREWS  NORTON.  LYMAX  BEECHER. 

JAMES  WALKER.  ARCHIBALD  ALEXANDER. 

HENRY  WARE,  Jun.  TIMOTHY  DWIGHT. 

LEVI  FRISBEE.  JOHN  WITHERSPOOX. 

J.  S.  BfCKMINSTER.  JOHN  M.  MASON. 

GI-LIAX  C.  VERI-LANCK.  CHARLES  PETTIT  MC!LVAIXE. 

WILLIAM  BARROWS.  FREDERIC  H.  HEDGE. 


SCHOLARS,  ESSAYISTS,  AND  CRITICS. 

JOHN  JAY,  JAMES  MADISON.  ALEXANDER  HAMILTON,  were  the  authors  of  "The 
Federalist."  Nos.  2,  3,  4,  5,  54,  were  written  bv  Jay;  10,  14,  37  to  38  inclusive, 
by  Madison;  18,  19,  20,  by  Madison  and  Hamilton;  the  rest,  sixty-three  in  all,  by 
Hamilton.  Political  essays  of  highest  ability. 

JOHN  MARSHALL.  — 1755-1835.  The  eminent  Chief  Justice  of  the  United  States. 
"Life  of  Washington,"  five  vols.;  "History  of  the  American  Colonies;"  "The  Fed- 
eral Constitution." 


SCHOLARS,   ESSAYISTS,   AND   CRITICS.  191 

LINDLEY  MURRAY. — 1745-1S26.  Born  in  Suatora,  near  Lancaster,  Penn. 
Author  of  the  famous  English  Grammar,  and  Reader;  also  an  Introduction  and  a 
Sequel  to  the  Reader. 

THOMAS  JEFFERSON.  — 1743-1826.  Author  of  "The  Declaration  of  Inde- 
pendence;" "  No.es  on  Virginia." 

FRANCIS  HOPKINSON. — 1737-1791.  Author  of  several  pieces  of  excellent  wit 
and  satire. 

NOAH  WEBSTER.  — 1758-1843.  "Spelling-Book;"  "English  Grammar;"  and 
"Dictionary."  It  is  a  little  strange  that  the  best  dictionary  of  the  English  language 
should  have  been  made  by  an  American.  Begun  in  1807 ;  published  in  1828.  In 
addition  to  this  magnificent  monument  to  his  name,  he  has  left  various  political 
essays. 

WILLIAM  SULLIVAN.  — 1774-1839.  "The  Political  Class-Book;"  "The  Moral 
Class-Book ;  "  "  Historical  Class-Book ;  "  "  Historical  Causes  and  Effects,  from  Fall  of 
Roman  Empire,  476,  to  Reformation,  1517;"  "The  Pub'ic  Men  of  the  Revolution, 
including  Events  from  Peace  of  1783  to  Peace  of  1815,  in  a  Series  of  Letters." 

WILLIAM  WIRT.  — 1722-1834.  "The  British  Spy;"  "The  Old  Bachelor;" 
"  Life  of  Patrick  Henry." 

WILLIAM  TUDOR.  — 1779-1830.    Founder  of  "The  North- American  Review;" 
" Letters  on  the  Eastern  States ;"  "Miscellanies;"  "Life  of  James  Otis." 
JOSEPH  DENNIE.  — 1768-1812.    Established,  in  1800,  "  The  Portfolio." 
THOMAS    PAINE. —  1736-1809.     Author  of  "Common    Sense;"    "Rights    of 
Man,"  in  answer  to  Burke's  "Reflections;"  "The  Age  of  Reason;"  and  several 
political  tracts. 

JOSEPH  T.  BUCKINGHAM. —  1779.  One  of  the  first  and  ablest  journalists  of- 
New  England.  Four  volumes  of  "Personal  Memoirs;"  "Anecdotes  and  Recollec- 
tions of  Editorial  Life." 

WILLIAM  JAY.  —1789-1858.  "  The  Life  and  Writings  of  John  Jay,"  two  vols. 
"  An  Inquiry  into  the  Character  and  Tendency  of  the  American  Colonization  and 
American  Antislavery  Societies;"  "A  View  of  the  Action  of  the  Federal  Gov- 
ernment in  Behalf  of  Slavery;"  "  Miscellaneous  Writings  on  Slavery;"  "History 
of  the  Mexican  War;"  all  written  with  candor  and  charity. 

ALEXANDER  H.  EVERETT.  —  "Europe;"  "America;"  "  New  Ideas  on  Popula- 
tion;" "  Critical  and  Miscellaneous  Essays,"  two  vols.  His  writings  are  principally 
of  a  political  character,  but  of  high  literary  merit. 

H?:NRY  REED. —  Born  July  11, 1808,  Philadelphia,  Penn.  Drowned  in  the  steam- 
ship "Arctic,"  Sept.  27,  1854.  "Lectures  on  English  Literature,  from  Chaucer  to 
Tennyson;"  "  Lectures  on  the  British  Poets,"  two  vols.;  "  Lectures  on  English  His- 
tory and  Tragic  Poetry,  as  illustrated  by  Shakspeare ;  "  "  Two  Lectures  on  the 
History  of  the  American  Union." 

JOSEPH  E.  WORCESTER.  —  The  celebrated  lexicographer;  resided  in  Cambridge, 
Mass.  His  quarto  dictionary  is  an  enduring  monument  of  his  industry  and  philo- 
logical learning. 

RUFUS  WILMOT  GRISWOLD.  —  Born  1815,  Benson,  Vt.;  died  1857.  "Poets  and 
Poetry  of  America,"  1842;  "Prose-Writers  of  America;"  "The  Female  Poets  of 
America,"  1848;  "The  Curiosities  of  American  Literature;"  "The  Poets  and 
Poetry  of  England  in  the  Nineteenth  Century;  "  and  several  other  volumes. 

HENRY  THEODORE  TUCKERMAN.  —  Born  April  20,  1813,  Boston,  Mass.  "  Artist- 
Life,  or  Sketches  of  American  Painters;"  "The  Italian  Sketch-Book ; "  "The 
Optimist  Essays  ;  "  "  Rambles  and  Reveries  ;  "  "  Sicily,  a  Pilgrimage  ;  " 
"Thoughts  on  the  Poets;"-  "Characteristics  of  Literature;"  "Memorial  of 
Greenough  the  Sculptor;"  "Leaves  from  the  Diary  of  a  Dreamer;  "  "Biographi- 
cal Essays;  "  and  a  volume  of  Poems,  all  genial  and  graceful. 

MARGARET  FULLER  D'OSSOLI.  —  1810-1850.  "Summer  on  the  Lakes;" 
"  Woman  in  the  Nineteenth  Century,"  herself  one  of  the  ablest. 

GEORGE  STILLMAN  HILLARD.  —  Born  Sept.  22,  1808,  Machias,  Me.  "Six 
Months  in  Italy;"  valuable  articles  to  principal  American  reviews;  and  an  ex- 
cellent series  of  Readers. 


192  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

JOSIAH  GILBERT  HOLLAND.  —  Born  July  24,  1*19,  Belchertown,  Mass.  Editor 
of  "  Springfield  .Republican;  "  is  well  known  as  the  author  of  "  Timothv  Titcomb's 
Letters  to  Young  People,"  1858  (humorous  and  satirical);  "Bitter-Sweet;"  and 
"  The  Bay  Path." 

EDWIN  P.  WHIFFLE.  —  Born  March  8,  1819,  Gloucester,  Mass.  Has  published 
two  volumes  of  "Essays  and  Reviews,"  and  "Lectures  on  Subjects  connected 
with  Literature  and  Life;"  all  of  much  value  for  their  terse,  vigorous  style,  and 
keen  analvsis. 


China,  and  Japan;"    "Northern   Travel;"   "Poems  of  the  Orient;"  "  Poems  of 
Home  and  Travel;  "  "  The  Lawson  Tragedy,"  1870. 

GEORGE  WILLIAM  CURTIS.  —  Born  1824,  Providence,  R.I.  A  brilliant  and  pop- 
ular writer  and  orator;  is  now  editor  of  "Harper's  Monthly."  Published  in  1850 
"Nile-Notes  of  a  Howadji;"  1852,  "The  Howadji  in  Syria;"  and  "  Lotus-Eating," 
a  summer  book.  "  The  Potiphar  Papers "  were  very  popular  satirical  sketches 
of  society. 

C.  C.  FELTON.  H.  F.  TUCKERMAN. 

HORACE  MANN.  CHARLES  ANTHON. 

E.  E.  HALE.  HENRY  BARNARD. 

HENRY  D.  THOREATT.  ORESTES  A.  BROWNSON. 

JOHN  RUSSELL  BARTLETT.  GEORGE  BURGESS. 

CATHERINE  BEECHER.  ELIHU  BURRITT. 

HENRY  BELLOWS.  MARY  H.  EASTMAN. 

SARAH  STICKNEY.  THOMAS  H.  BENTON. 

CALEB  CUSHING.   .  CHARLES  D.  CLEVELAND. 

GEOBGE  T.  CURTIS.  WILLIAM  H.  SEWARD. 


RITERS   OF   FICTIOK 

JAMES    FENIMORE    COOPER.  —  1789-1851.    This  celebrated  American  novelist 

elow,  he  h 
in  Europe; 


.  —         -. 

was  born  in  Burlington,  N.  J.     Besides  his  novels  named  in  the  list  below,  he  has 
published   a  "History  of  the   United-States   Navy;"    "Gleanings 


"  Sketches  of  Switzerland;  "  and  other  smaller  works. 

LIST  OF   NOVELS. 


1823 
"The 


Precaution,"  1821:  "The  Spy,"  1821;  "The  Pioneers,"  1823;  "The  Pilot," 
;  "Lionel  Lincoln,"  1825;  "  Last  of  the  Mohicans,"  1826;  "Red  Rover,"  1827; 
e  Prairie,"  1827;  "Traveling  Bachelor,"  1828;  "  Wept  of  Wish-ton-Wish," 

1829;  "  The  Water-  Witch,"  1830;  "  The  Bravo,"  1831;  "  The  Heidenmauer,"  1832; 

"The  Headsman,"    1833;    "The  Monikins,"  1835;    "Homeward  Bound,"   1838; 

"Home  as  Found,"  1838;  "The  Pathfinder,"  1840;  "Mercedes  of  Castile,"  1840; 

"The  Deerslayer,"  1841;  "The  Two  Admirals"  1842;  "  Wing-and-Wing,"  1842; 

"Ned  Mvers,"  1843;    "  Wyandotte,"   1843;  "Afloat  and  Ashore,"  1844;  "Miles 

Wallinwford  "  1844;    "The  Chainbearer,"  1845;  "  Satanstoe,"  1845;    "The  Red- 

Skins,"  1846;  "The  Crater,"  1847;  "Jack  Tier,"  1848;  "Oak-Openings,"  1848; 

"  The  Sea  Lions,"  1849;  "  The  Wrays  of  the  Hour,"  1850. 


THE    CAPTURE    OF    A     WHALE. 

"  TOM,"  cried  Barnstable,   starting,   "  there  is  the   blow  of  a 
whale ! " 

"  Ay,  ay,  sir ! "  returned  the  cockswain  with  undisturbed  com- 


JAMES     FENIMORE     COOPER.  193 

posure  :  "  here  is  his  spout,  not  half  a  mile  to  seaward.  The  east- 
erly gale  has  driven  the  creator  to  leeward;  and  he  begins  to  find 
himself  in  shoal  water.  He's  been  sleeping  while  he  should  have 
been  working  to  windward." 

"  The  fellow  takes  it  coolly  too.  He's  in  no  hurry  to  get  an 
offing." 

"  I  rather  conclude,  sir,"  said  the  cockswain,  rolling  over  his  to- 
bacco in  his  mouth  very  composedly,  while  his  little  sunken  eyes 
began  to  twinkle  with  pleasure  at  the  sight,  "  the  gentleman  has 
lost  his  reckoning,  and  don't  know  which  way  to  head  to  take 
himself  back  into  blue  water." 

"  'Tis  a  fin-back  !  "  exclaimed  the  lieutenant.  "  He  will  soon 
make  headway,  and  be  off." 

"No,  sir  ;  'tis  a  right  whale,"  answered  Tom  :  "  I  saw  his  spout. 
He  threw  up  a  pair  of  as  pretty  rainbows  as  a  Christian  would  wish 
to  look  at.  He's  a  raal  oil-butt,  that  fellow  !  " 

Barnstable  laughed,  and  exclaimed  in  joyous  tones,  — 

"  Give  strong  way,  my  hearties !  There  seems  nothing  better 
to  be  done  :  let  us  have  a  stroke  of  a  harpoon  at  that  impudent 
rascal." 

The  men  shouted  spontaneously ;  and  the  old  cockswain  suffered 
his  solemn  visage  to  relax  into  a  small  laugh,  while  the  whale- 
boat  sprang  forward  like  a  courser  for  the  goal.  During  the  few 
minutes  they  were  pulling  toward  their  game,  Long  Tom-  arose 
from  his  crouching  attitude  in  *the  stern-sheets,  and  transferred 
his  huge  frame  to  the  bows  of  the  boat,  where  he  made  such  prep- 
aration to  strike  the  whale  as  the  occasion  required.  The  tub, 
containing  about  half  of  a  whale-line,  was  placed  at  the  feet  of 
Barnstable,  who  had  been  preparing  an  oar  to  steer  with  in  place 
of  the  rudder,  which  was  unshipped,  in  order,  that,  if  necessary, 
the  boat  might  be  whirled  round  when  not  advancing. 

Their  approach  was  utterly  unnoticed  by  the  monster  of  the 
deep,  who  continued  to  amuse  himself  with  throwing  the  water 
in  two  circular  spouts  high  into  the  air;  occasionally  flourishing 
the  broad  flukes  of  his  tail  with  graceful  but  terrific  force  until 
the  hardy  seamen  were  within  a  few  hundred  feet  of  him,  when 
he  suddenly  cast  his  head  downwards,  and,  without  apparent 
effort,  reared  his  immense  body  for  many  feet  above  the  water, 
waving  his  tail  violently,  and  producing  a  whizzing  noise  that 
sounded  like  the  rushing  of  winds.  The  cockswain  stood  erect, 
poising  his  harpoon,  ready  for  the  blow ;  but,  when  he  beheld  the 
creature  assuming  this  formidable  attitude,  he  waved  his  hand  to 
his  commander,  who  instantly  signed  to  his  men  to  cease  rowing. 
In  this  situation  the  sportsman  rested  a  few  moments;  while  the 
whale  struck  several  blows  on  the  water  in  rapid  succession,  the 
noise  of  which  re-echoed  along  the  cliffs  like  the  hollow  reports 
13 


194  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

of  so  many  cannon.  After  this  wanton  exhibition  of  his  terrible 
strength,  the  monster  sank  again  into  his  native  element,  and 
slowly  disappeared  from  the  eyes  of  his  pursuers. 

"  Which  way  did  he  head,  Tom  ?  "  cried  Barnstable  the  mo- 
ment the  whale  was  out  of  sight. 

"Pretty  much  up  and  down,  sir,"  returned  the  cockswain, 
whose  eye  was  gradually  brightening  with  the  excitement  of  the 
•sport.  "  He'll  soon  run  his  nose  against  the  bottom  if  he  stands 
long  on  that  course,  and  will  be  glad  to  get  another  snuff  of  pure 
air.  Send  her  a  few  fathoms  to  starboard,  sir,  and  I  promise  we 
shall  not  be  out  of  his  track." 

The  conjecture  of  the  experienced  old  seaman  proved  true ;  for 
in  a  few  minutes  the  water  broke  near  them,  and  another  spout 
was  cast  into  the  air,  when  the  huge  animal  rushed  for  half  his 
length  in  the  same  direction,  and  fell  on  the  sea  with  a  turbulence 
and  foam  equal  to  that  which  is  produced  by  the  launching  of  a 
vessel  for  the  first  time  into  its  proper  element.  After  this  evo- 
lution, the  whale  rolled  heavily,  and  seemed  to  rest  from  further 
efforts. 

His  slightest  movements  were  closely  watched  by  Barnstable 
and  his  cockswain  ;  and,  when  he  was  in  a  state  of  comparative 
rest,  the  former  gave  a  signal  to  his  crew  to  ply  their  oars  once 
more.  A  few  long  and  vigorous  strokes  sent  the  boat  directly  up 
to  the  broadside  of  the  whale,  with  its  bows  pointing  towards  one 
of  the  fins,  which  was  at  times,  a^  the  animal  yielded  sluggishly 
to  the  action  of  the  waves,  exposed  to  view.  The  cockswain 
poised  his  harpoon  with  much  precision,  and  then  darted  it  from 
him  with  a  violence  that  buried  the  iron  in  the  body  of  their  foe. 
The  instant  the  blow  was  made,  Long  Tom  shouted  with  singular 
earnestness,  — 

"  Starn,  all  ! " 

"  Stern,  all !  "  echoed  Barnstable ;  when  the  obedient  seamen, 
by  united  efforts,  forced  the  boat  in  a  backward  direction,  beyond 
the  reach  of  any  blow  from  their  formidable  antagonist.  The 
alarmed  animal,  however,  meditated  no  such  resistance.  Ignorant 
of  his  own  power,  and  of  the  insignificance  of  his  enemies,  he 
sought  refuge  in  flight.  One  moment  of  stupid  surprise  succeeded 
the  entrance  of  the  iron;  when  he  cast  his  huge  tail  into  the  air 
with  a  violence  that  threw  the  sea  around  him  into  increased  com- 
motion, and  then  disappeared  with  the  quickness  of  lightning 
amid  a  cloud  of  foam. 

"  Snub  him  ! "  shouted  Barnstable.  "  Hold  on,  Tom  !  he  rises 
already." 

"  Ay,  ay,  sir ! "  replied  the  composed  cockswain,  seizing  the  line, 
which  was  running  out  of  the  boat  with  a  velocity  that  rendered 
such  a  maneuver  rather  hazardous,  and  causing  it  to  yield  more 


JAME?     FENIMORE     COOPER.  195 

gradually  round  the  large  loggerhead  that  was  placed  in  the  bows 
of  the  boat  for  that  purpose.  Presently  the  line  stretched  for- 
ward; and,  rising  to  the  surface  with  tremulous  vibrations,  it  indi- 
cated the  direction  in  which  the  animal  might  be  expected  to 
re-appear.  Barnstablc  had  cast  the  bows  of  the  boat  towards  that 
point  before  the  territied  and  wounded  victim  rose  once  more  to 
the  surface,  whose  time  was,  however,  no  longer  wasted  in  his 
sports,  but  who  cast  the  waters  aside  as  he  forced  his  way  with 
prodigious  velocity  along  their  surface.  The  boat  was  dragged 
violently  in  his  wake,  and  cut  through  the  billows  with  a  terrific 
rapidity,  that  at  moments  appeared  to  bury  the  slight  fabric  in  the 
ocean.  When  Long  Tom  beheld  his  victim  throwing  his  spouts 
on  high  again,  he  pointed  with  exultation  to  the  jetting  fluid, 
which  was  streaked  with  the  deep  red  of  blood,  and  cried,  — 

"  Ay,  I've  touched  the  fellow's  life  !  It  must  be  more  than  two 
foot  of  blubber  that  stops  my  iron  from  reaching  the  life  of  any 
whale  that  ever  sculled  the  ocean." 

"I  believe  you  have  saved  yourself  the  trouble  of  using  the 
bayonet  you  have  rigged  for  a  lance,"  said  his  commander,  who 
entered  into  the  sport  with  all  the  ardor  of  one  whose  youth  had 
been  chiefly  passed  in  such  pursuits.  "  Feel  your  line,  Master 
Coffin :  can  we  haul  alongside  of  our  enemy  ?  I  like  not  the 
course  he  is  steering,  as  he  tows  us  from  the  schooner." 

"  'Tis  the  creater's  way,  sir,"  said  the  cockswain.  "  You  know 
they  need  the  air  in  their  nostrils  when  they  run,  the  same  as  a 
mam  But  lay  hold,  boys,  arid  let  us  haul  up  to  him." 

The  seamen  now  seized  their  whale-line,  and  slowly  drew  their 
boat  to  within  a  few  feet  of  the  tail  of  the  fish,  whose  progress 
became  sensibly  less  rapid  as  he  grew  weak  with  the  loss  of  blood. 
In  a  few  minutes  he  stopped  running,  and  appeared  to  roll  un- 
easily on  the  water,  as  if  suffering  the  agony  of  death. 

"Shall  we  pull  in  and  finish  him,  Tom?"  cried  Barnstable. 
"  A  few  sets  from  your  bayonet  would  do  it." 

The  cockswain  stood  examining  his  game  with  cool  discretion, 
and  replied  to  this  interrogatory, — 

"  No,  sir !  no  !  He's  going  into  his  flurry :  there's  no  occasion 
for  disgracing  ourselves  by  using  a  soldier's  weapon  in  taking  a 
whale.  Starn  off,  sir!  starn  off!  the  creater's  in  his  flurry." 

The  warning  of  the  prudent  cockswain  was  promptly  obeyed; 
and  the  boat  cautiously  drew  off  to  a  distance,  leaving  to  the  ani- 
mal a  clear  space  while  under  its  dying  agonies.  From  a  state 
of  perfect  rest,  the  terrible  monster  threw  its  tail  on  high  as  when 
in  sport ;  but  its  blows  were  trebled  in  rapidity  and  violence,  till 
all  was  hid  from  view  by  a  pyramid  of  foam  that  was  deeply 
dyed  with  blood.  The  roarings  of  the  fish  were  like  the  bellow- 
ings  of  a  herd  of  bulls ;  and,  to  one  who  was  ignorant  of  the  fact, 


196  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

it  would  have  appeared  as  if  a  thousand  monsters  were  engaged 
m  deadly  combat  behind  the  bloody  mist  that  obstructed  the 
view.  Gradually  these  efforts  subsided ;  and,  when  the  discolored 
water  again  settled  down  to  the  long  and  regular  swell  of  the 
ocean,  the  fish  was  seen  exhausted,  and  yielding  passively  to  its 
fate.  As  life  departed,  the  enormous  black  mass  rolled  to  one 
side  ;  and,  when  the  white  and  glistening  skin  of  the  belly  became 
apparent,  the  seamen  well  knew  that  their  victory  was  achieved. 


THE    WRECK    OF   "THE   ARIEL:1 

"  Go,  my  boys,  go ! "  said  Barnstable,  as  the  moment  of  dreadful 
uncertainty  passed :  "you  have  still  the  whale-boat;  and  she,  at 
least,  will  take  you  nigh  the  shore.  Go  into  her,  my  boys !  God 
bless  you,  God  bless  you  all.!  You  have  been  faithful  and  honest 
fellows ;  and  I  believe  he  will  not  yet  desert  you.  Go,  my  friends, 
while  there  is  a  lull !  " 

The  seamen  threw  themselves  in  a  mass  of  human  bodies  into 
the  light  vessel,  which  nearly  sunk  under  the  unusual  burden  ; 
but,  when  they  looked  around  them,  Barnstable  and  Merry,  Dil- 
lon and  the  cockswain,  were  yet  to  be  seen  on  the  decks  of  "  The 
Ariel."  The  former  was  pacing,  in  deep  and  perhaps  bitter  melan- 
choly, the  wet  planks  of  the  schooner;  while  the  boy  hung 
unheeded  on  his  arm,  uttering  disregarded  petitions  to  his  com- 
mander to  desert  the  wreck.  Dillon  approached  the  side  where 
the  boat  lay,  again  and  again  ;  but  the  threatening  countenances 
of  the  seamen  as  often  drove  him  back  in  despair.  Tom  had 
seated  himself  on  the  heel  of  the  bowsprit,  where  he  continued 
in  an  attitude  of  quiet  resignation,  returning  no  other  answers  to 
the  loud  and  repeated  calls  of  his  shipmates  than  by  waving  his 
hand  towards  the  shore. 

"Now,  hear  me,"  said  the  boy,  urging  his  request  to  tears: 
"  if  not  for  my  sake  or  for  your  own  sake,  Mr.  Barnstable,  or  for 
the  hopes  of  God's  mercy,  go  into  the  boat  for  the  love  of  my 
cousin  Katherine." 

The  young  lieutenant  paused  in  his  troubled  walk ;  and  for  a 
moment  he  cast  a  glance  of  hesitation  at  the  cliffs :  but  at  the 
next  instant  his  eyes  fell  on  the  ruin  of  his  vessel ;  and  he  an- 
swered, — 

"  Xever,  boy,  never !  If  my  hour  has  come,  I  will  not  shrink 
from  my  fate." 

"  Listen  to  the  men,  dear  sir :  the  boat  will  be  swamped  along- 
side the  wreck  ;  and  their  cry  is,  that,  without  you,  they  will  not 
let  her  go." 

Barnstable  motioned  to  the  boat  to  bid  the  boy  enter  it,  and 
turned  away  in  silence. 


JAMES     FEN1MORE     COOPER.  197 

"  Well,"  said  Merry  with  firmness,  "  if  it  be  right  that  a  lieu- 
tenant shall  stay  by  the  wreck,  it  must  also  be  right  for  a  mid- 
shipman. Shove  off:  neither  Mr.  Barnstable  nor  myself  will 
quit  the  vessel." 

"  Boy,  your  life  has  been  intrusted  to  my  keeping,  and  at  my 
hands  will  it  be  required,"  said  his  commander,  lifting  the  strug- 
gling youth,  and  tossing  him  into  the  arms  of  the  seamen. 
"  Away  with  ye  !  and  God  be  with  you  !  There  is  more  weight  in 
you  now  than  can  go  safe  to  land." 

Still  the  seamen  hesitated  :  for  they  perceived  the  cockswain 
moving  with  a  steady  tread  along  the  deck ;  and  they  hoped  he 
had  relented,  and  would  yet  persuade  the  lieutenant  to  join  his 
crew.  But  Tom,  imitating  the  example  of  his  commander,  seized 
the  latter  suddenly  in  his  powerful  grasp,  and  threw  him  over 
the  bulwarks  with  an  irresistible  force.  At  the  same  moment,  he 
cast  the  fast  of  the  boat  from  the  pin  that  held  it ;  and,  lifting  his 
broad  hands  high  into  the  air,  his  voice  was  heard  in  the  tempest. 

"God's  will  be  done  with  me!"  he  cried.  "I  saw  the  first 
timber  of  '  The  Ariel '  laid,  and  shall  live  just  long  enough  to  see  it 
turn  out  of  her  bottom ;  after  which  I  wish  to  live  no  longer." 

But  his  shipmates  were  swept  far  beyond  the  sounds  of  his 
voice  before  half  these  words  were  uttered.  All  command  of  the 
boat  was  rendered  impossible  by  the  numbers  it  contained,  as 
well  as  the  raging  of  the  surf;  and,  as  it  rose  on  the  white  crest 
of  a  wave,  Tom  saw  his  beloved  little  craft  for  the  last  time.  It 
fell  into  a  trough  of  the  sea;  and  in  a  few  moments  more  its  frag- 
ments were  ground  into  splinters  on  the  adjacent  rocks.  The 
cockswain  still  remained  where  he  had  cast  off  the  rope,  and  be- 
held the  numerous  heads  and  arms  that  appeared  rising  at  short 
intervals  on  the  waves  :  some  making  powerful  and  well-directed 
efforts  to  gain  the  sands,  that  were  becoming  visible  as  the  tide 
fell ;  and  others  wildly  tossed  in  the  frantic  movements  of  helpless 
despair.  The  honest  old  seaman  gave  a  cry  of  joy  as  he  saw 
Barnstable  issue  from  the  surf,  bearing  the  form  of  Merry  in  safety 
to  the  sands,  where,  one  by  one,  several  seamen  soon  appeared 
also,  dripping  and  exhausted.  Many  others  of  the  crew  were  car- 
ried in  a  similar  manner  to  places  of  safety ;  though,  as  Tom 
returned  to  his  seat  on  the  bowsprit,  he  could  not  conceal  from 
his  reluctant  eyes  the  lifeless  forms  that  were,  in  other  spots, 
driven  against  the  rocks  with  a  fury  that  soon  left  them  but  few 
of  the  outward  vestiges  of  humanity. 

Dillon  and  the  cockswain  were  now  the  sole  occupants  of  their 
dreadful  station.  The  former  stood  in  a  kind  of  stupid  despair, 
a  witness  of  the  scene  we  have  related;  but,  as  his  curdled  blood 
began  again  to  flow  more  warmly  through  his  heart,  he  crept  close 
to  the  side  of  Tom  with  that  sort  of  selfish  feeling  that  makes 


198  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

even  hopeless  misery  more  tolerable  when  endured  in  participa- 
tion with  another. 

"  When  the  tide  falls,"  he  said  in  a  voice  that  betrayed  the 
agony  of  fear,  though  his  words  expressed  the  renewal  of  hope, 
"we  shall  be  able  to  walk  to  land." 

"  There  was  One,  and  only  One,  to  whose  feet  the  waters  were 
the  same  as  a  dry  deck,"  returned  the  cockswain ;  "  and  none  but 
such  as  have  this  power  will  ever  be  able  to  walk  from  these  rocks 
to  the  sands."  The  old  seaman  paused ;  and  turning  his  eyes, 
which  exhibited  a  mingled  expression  of  disgust  and  compassion, 
on  his  companion,  he  added  with  reverence,  "  Had  you  thought 
more  of  him  in  fair  weather,  your  case  would  be  less  to  be  pitied 
in  this  tempest." 

"Do  you  still  think  there  is  much  danger?"  asked  Dillon. 

"  To  them  that  have  reason  to  fear  death.  Listen  !  Do  you 
hear  that  hollow  noise  beneath  ye  ?  " 

"'Tis  the  wind  driving  by  the  vessel." 

"  'Tis  the  poor  thing  herself,"  said  the  affected  cockswain, 
"  giving  her  last  groans.  The  water  is  breaking  up  her  decks  ; 
and,  in  a  few  minutes  more,  the  handsomest  model  that  ever  cut 
a  wave  will  be  like  the  chips  that  fell  from  her  timbers  in  fram- 
ing." 

"  Why,  then,  did  you  remain  here  ?  "  cried  Dillon  wildly. 

"  To  die  in  my  coffin,  if  it  should  be  the  will  of  God,"  returned 
Tom.  "  These  waves  to  me  are  what  the  land  is  to  you :  I  was 
born  on  them,  and  I  have  always  meant  that  they  should  be  my 
grave." 

"  But  I  —  I,"  shrieked  Dillon,  —  "I  am  not  ready  to  die  !  —  I 
can  not  die  ! —  I  will  not  die  !  " 

"  Poor  wretch  !  "  muttered  his  companion.  "You  must  go,  like 
the  rest  of  us.  When  the  death-watch  is  called,  none  can  skulk 
from  the  muster." 

"  I  can  swim,"  Dillon  continued,  rushing  with  frantic  eagerness 
to  the  side  of  the  wreck.  "  Is  there  no  billet  of  wood,  no  rope, 
that  I  can  take  with  me  ?  " 

"  None :  every  thing  has  been  cut  away,  or  carried  oft'  by  the 
sea.  If  ye  are  about  to  strive  for  your  life,  take  with  ye  a  stout 
heart  and  a  clean  conscience,  and  trust  the  rest  to  God." 

"  God!"  echoed  Dillon  in  the  madness  of  his  frenzy :  "I  know 
no  God  !  There  is  no  God  that  knows  me  ! " 

"  Peace  !  "  said  the  deep  tones  of  the  cockswain  in  a  voice  that 
seemed  to  speak  in  the  elements;  "blasphemer,  peace  !" 

The  heavy  groaning  produced  by  the  water  in  the  timbers  of 
"  The  Ariel,"  at  that  moment  added  its  impulse  to  the  raging  feel- 
ings of  Dillon ;  and  he  cast  himself  headlong  into  the  sea. 

The  water  thrown  by  the  rolling  of  the  surf  on  the  beach  was 


JAMES     FENIMORE     COOPER.   *  199 

necessarily  returned  to  the  ocean  in  eddies,  in  different  places 
favorable  to  such  an  action  of  the  element.  Into  the  edge  of  one 
of  these  counter-currents,  that  was  produced  by  the  very  rocks  on 
which  the  schooner  lay,  and  which  the  watermen  call  the  "under- 
tow," Dillon  had,  unknowingly,  thrown  his  person  ;  and,  when  the 
waves  had  driven  him  a  short  distance  from  the  wreck,  he  was 
met  by  a  stream  that  his  most  desperate  efforts  could  not  over- 
come. He  was  a  light  and  powerful  swimmer;  and  the  struggle 
was  hard  and  protracted.  With  the  shore  immediately  before  his 
eyes,  and  at  no  great  distance,  he  was  led,  as  by  a  false  phantom, 
to  continue  his  efforts,  although  they  did  not  advance  him  a  foot. 
The  old  seaman,  who  at  first  had  watched  his  motions  with  care- 
less indifference,  understood  the  danger  of  his  situation  at  a 
glance  ;  and,  forgetful  of  his  own  fate,  he  shouted  aloud,  in  a 
voice  that  was  driven  over  the  struggling  victim  to  the  ears  of 
his  shipmates  on  the  sands,  — 

"  Sheer  to  port,  and  clear  the  under-tow  !  — sheer  to  the  south- 
ward !  " 

Dillon  heard  the  sounds;  but  his  faculties  were  too  much  ob- 
scured by  terror  to  distinguish  their  object:  he,  however,  blindly 
yielded  to  the  call,  and  gradually  changed  his  direction,  until  his 
face  was  once  more  turned  toward  the  vessel.  The  current  swept 
him  diagonally  by  the  rocks;  and  he  was  forced  into  an  eddy, 
where  he  had  nothing  to  contend  against  but  the  waves,  whose 
violence  was  much  broken  by  the  wreck.  In  this  state  he  con- 
tinued still  to  struggle,  but  with  a  force  that  was  too  much  weak- 
ened to  overcome  the  resistance  he  met.  Tom  looked  around 
him  for  a  rope ;  but  not  one  presented  itself  to  his  hands  :  all  had 
gone  over  with  the  spars,  or  been  swept  away  by  the  waves.  At 
this  moment  of  disappointment,  his  eyes  met  those  of  the  desper- 
ate Dillon.  Calm,  and  inured  to  horrors,  as  was  the  veteran  sea- 
man, he  involuntarily  passed  his  hand  before  his  brow  as  if  to 
exclude  the  look  of  despair  he  encountered;  and  when,  a  moment 
afterwards,  he  removed  the  rigid  member,  he  beheld  the  sinking 
form  of  the  victim  as  it  gradually  settled  in  the  ocean,  still  strug- 
gling, with  regular  but  impotent  strokes  of  the  arms  and  feet,  to 
gain  the  wreck,  and  to  preserve  an  existence  that  had  been  so 
much  abused  in  its  hour  of  allotted  probation. 

"  He  will  soon  know  his  God,  and  learn  that  his  God  knows 
him,"  murmured  the  cockswain  to  himself.  As  he  yet  spoke, 
the  wreck  of  "  The  Ariel"  yielded  to  an  overwhelming  sea;  and, 
after  a  universal  shudder,  her  timbers  and  planks  gave  way,  and 
were  swept  towards  the  cliffs,  bearing  the  body  of  the  simple- 
hearted  cockswain  among  the  ruins. 


200  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

HARRIET  BEECHER  STOWE. —  Born  June  14.  1?12,  Litchfield,  Conn.  Daughter 
of  Rev.  Lymau  lieecher,  D.I).,  and  sister  of  Rev.  Henry  Ward  Ueechur. 

Mrs.  Stowe's  most  remarkable  work  is  ''  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin,  or  Life  among  the 
Lowly."  first  published  in  numbers  (weekly)  in  "The  National  Era,"  in  book-form, 
in  1852.  Its  great  popularity  is  shown  by  the  copies  sold;  no  single  production 
ever  having  equaled  it.  Translated  into  all  languages,  dramatized  in  twenty  differ- 
ent forms,  its  sales  were  reckoned  by  millions  instead  of  by  thousands.  Her  writ- 
ings, not  wanting  in  deep  pathos,  originality  of  thought,  and  knowledge  of  human 
nature,  are  vet  more  distinguished  for  their  vigorous  common  sense. 

Other  Productions.  —  '' "1  he  Mayflower;"  "Key  to  Uncle  Tom;"  "Sunny 
Memories  of  Foreign  Lauds;"  "  Dred,  or  a  Tale  of  the  Dismal  Swamp;"  "The 
Minister's  Wooing;  "  "  House  and  Home  Papers;  "  "  The  Pearl  of  Orr's  Island;" 
"  Agnes  of  Sorrento;  "  "  Men  of  our  Times." 

SAMUEL  G.  GOODRICH. —  Born  Ridgefield,  Conn.,  1793.  The  renowned  "Peter 
Parlev  "  has  published  a  hundred  and  seventy-seven  volumes:  — 

"Sketches  from  a  Student's  Window, "  1836;  "Fireside  Education,"  1838; 
"  The  Outcast,  and  other  Poems,"  1841;  "  Recollections  of  a  Lifetime,  or  Men  and 
Things  I  have  seen,"  1856;  Miscellaneous  Works,  thirty  vols. ;  School-Books,  twenty- 
seven  vols. ;  "Peter  Parley's  Tales,"  thirty-six  vols.;  "Parley's  Historical  Com- 
pends,"  thirty-six  vols. ;  "Parley's  Miscellanies,"  seventy  vols.'  Sales,  ten  million 
volumes,  indicate  the  popularity  of  his  various  works. 

JACOB  ABBOTT.  — 1803.  "  The  Young  Christian ; "  "  Corner-Stone ;  "  "  Way  to 
do  Good ; "  "  Hoary  Head;  "  and  the  "  Rollo  Books."  In  all,  about  seventy  volumes. 

LYDIA  MARIA  CHILD.  —  This  noble  woman  is  always  graceful  and  interesting. 
Has  published  "  Hobomok;  "  "Rebels,  a  Tale  of  the  Revolution;"  "  Frugal  House- 
wife;" "  The  Mother's  Book; "  "  The  Girl's  Book;  "  the  Lives  of  Madame  de  Stael 
Roland,  Guy  on,  and  Lady  Russell,  for  "Ladies'  Family  Library;"  "  Biography  of 
Good  Wives;"  "  Condition  of  Women  in  all  Ages,"  two  vols.;  "An  Appeal  for 
that  Class  of  American  Citizens  called  Africans;"  "  Philothea; "  "Letters  from 
New  York;  "  "  Fact  and  Fiction;"  "  The  Progress  of  Religious  Ideas,  embracing  a 
View  of  every  Form  of  Belief,  from  the  Most  Ancient  Hindoo  Records  to  the  Com- 
plete Establishment  of  the  Papal  Church;"  "Looking  toward  Sunset;"  "The 
Freedmen's  Book; "  "  A  Romance  of  the  Republic." 

JAMES  KIRKE  PAULDING.  —  1778.  Joint  author,  with  Irving,  of  first  "  Salma- 
gundi Papers;"  sole  author  of  second  "Salmagundi;"  "  Lay  of  a  Scotch  Fiddle 
and  Jokcly;"  "The  United  States  and  England;"  "Letters  from  the  South;" 
"  The  Diverting  History  of  John  Bull  and  Brother  Jonathan  ;  "  "  Old  Times  in  the 
New  World;"  "  John  "Bull  in  America;  "  "  Many  Tales  ot  the  Three  Wi<e  Men  of 
Gotham;"  "  The  New  Pilgrim's  Progress;"  "  The  Tales  of  a  Good  Woman,  by  a 
Doubtful  Gentleman;"  "Dutchman's  Fireside;"  "  Westward,  Ho! "  "Life 'of 
Washington;"  "Slavery  in  the  United  States;"  "The  Old  Continental;"  "The 
Puritan's  Daughter." 

WILLIAM  GILMORE  SIMMS.  —  Born  April  17,  1806,  Charleston,  S.C.  Novelist, 
historian,  and  poet.  Of  this  truly  original  writer,  we  regret  that  we  can  give  only 
the  names  of  his  fifty-three  volumes  of  poetry,  fiction,  history,  and  biography. 
"  Lyrical  and  other  Poems;"  "Early  Lays;"  "The  Tricolor;"  "Atalantis;" 
"Martin  Faber; "  "Guy  Rivers; "'"  Yemassee; "  "The  Partisan;"  "  Melli- 
champe;  "  "  Pelayo;  "  "  Carl  Werner;  "  "  Richard  Hurdis;  "  "  Damsel  of  Darien;  " 
"Beauchamp;"  "  The  Kinsman;  "  "  Katharine  Walton ;"  "Confession." 

Rev.  WILLIAM  WARE.  — 1797-1816.  "Zenobia;"  "Aurelian;"  "Julian;" 
u  Sketches  of  European  Capitals." 

LYDIA  HUXTLEY  SIGOUKXEY  — "Moral  Pieces  in  Prose  and  Ver=e;"  "Letters 
to  Pupils;"  "Letters  to  Youns:  Ladies;"  "Whisper  to  a  Bride;"  "Letters  to 
Mothers ; "  "  Child's  Book ;  "  "  Girl's  Book ; "  "  Boy's  Book ;  "  "  How  to  be  Happy ;  " 
"Water-Drops;"  "Olive-Leaves;"  "Scenes  in'  Mv  X«tive  Land:"  "Pleasant 
Memories  of  Pleasant  Lands;  "  "  Sea  and  Sailor;"  "  Pocahontas;  "  4'  Weeping  Wil- 
low;" "Voice  of  Flowers;"  "Sayings  of  the  Little  Ones,  and  Poems  for  their 
Mothers;"  "  Past  Meridian;  "  "Lucy  Howard's  Journal." 

CATHERINE  MARIA  SEOGWICIV.  —  "  A  Xe\\ --England  Tale,"  1822;  "Redwood;" 
"Hope  Leslie,  or  Early  Times  in  Massachusetts,"  two  vols. ;  "Clarence;"  "The 
Lin  woods,  or  Sixty  Years  since  in  America;"  "Home;"  "The  Poor  Rich  Man 


SCIENCE.  201 

and  the  Rich  Poor  Man;  "  "  Live  and  Let  Live; "  "  Means  and  Ends,  or  Self-Train- 
ing; "  "  A  Love-Token  for  Children;  "  "  Stories  for  Young  Persons;  "  "  Morals  of 
Manners;"  ''Facts  and  Fancies;"  "The  Boy  of  Mount  Rhigi;"  "Letters  from 
Abroad  to  Kindred  at  Home;  "  "  Life  of  Lucretia  M.  Davidson;  "  "  Married  or  Sin- 
gle." 

Mrs.  CAROLINE  M.  KIRKLAND.  — "  New  Home;  Who'll  Follow ?"  by  Mrs.  May 
Clavers,  1839;  "Forest-Life,"  Ifc42;  "Western  Clearings;"  "An  Essay  on  the  Life 
and  Writings  of  Spenser;"  "  Holidays  Abroad,  or  Europe  from  the  West;"  "The 
Evening  Book,  with  Sketches  of  Western  Life;"  "Autumn  Hours;"  "The  Home 
Circle ;'"  "  The  Book  of  Home  Beauty ;  "  "  Memoirs  of  Washington,"  —  all  spirited, 
and  full  of  common  sense. 

CHAKLES  BROCKDEN  BROWN.  — 1771-1810.  "Alarin;"  "Wieland;"  "  Or- 
mond;"  "Arthur  Mervyn,"  two  vols. ;  "Edgar  Huntley;"  "Clara  Howard;" 
"  Jane  Talbot."  Portions  of  his  novels  unpleasantly  terrific. 

JOHN  NEAT,.  —  1793.  "Keep  Cool;"  "The  Battle  of  Niagara,  with  other 
Poems;"  "  Otho,"  five-act  tragedy;  "  Goldau,  the  Maniac  Harper;"  "Logan;" 
"Randolph;"  "Errata;"  "Seventy-Six;"  "  Brother  Jonathan; "  "Rachel  Dyer,  a 
Story  of  Salem  Witchcraft;"  "Authorship,  by  a  New-Englander  over  the  Sea;" 
/'Down-Easters;"  and  "Ruth  Elder." 

SEE  A  SMITH.  — 1792.  "Letters  of  Major  Jack  Downing;  "  "Thirty  Years  out 
of  the  United- States  Senate,  by  Major  Jack  Downing;"  "  Way  Down  East;"  "New 
Elements  of  Geometry." 

RICHARD  H.  DANA,  Jun.  T.  W.  HIGGINSON. 

THEODORE  WINTHROP.  C.  C.  COFFIN  ( "  Carleton  " ). 

MARIA  S.  CUMMINS.  KATE  FIELD. 

E.  STUART  PHELPS.  MOSES  COIT  TYLER. 

LOUISA  M.  ALCOTT.  WILLIAM  H.  MURRAY. 

"  FANNY  FERN  "  (Mrs.  James  Parton).      ELIJAH  KELLOGG. 

"GAIL  HAMILTON"  (Mary  E.  Dodge).      J.  T.  TROWBRIDGE. 

THOMAS  B.  THORPE.  W.  T.  ADAMS. 

EDMUND  FLAGG. 


SCIENCE, 

INCLUDING   DISTINGUISHED   PHYSICISTS    AND   NATURALISTS. 

BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN.  — 1706-1790.    The  world-renowned  philosopher  and  states- 
man, whose  life  and  works  are  known,  or  ought  to  be,  to  every  American. 
BENJAMIN  RUSH.  — 1745-1813. 
ALEXANDER  WILSON.  — 1766-1813. 

JOHN  JAMES  AUDUBON.  — 1782-1851.    "  Birds  of  America." 
HENRY  C.  CAREY.  — 1793.     "  Laws  of  Wealth,"  three  vols. ;  "  Harmony  of  Inter- 
ests," &c.;  "Principles  of  Social  Science." 

JOHN  BACHMAN.  ASA  GRAY. 

EDWIN  HAMILTON  DAVIS.  ALPHONSO  WOOD. 

CHESTER  DEWEY.  A.  D.  BACHE. 

SAMUEL  HENRY  DICKSON.  MATTHEW  F.  MAURY. 

JOHN  WILLIAM  DRAPER.  EPHRAIM  G.  SQUIER. 

JAMES  HALL.  WILLIAM  A.  ALCOTT. 

EDWARD  A.  SAMUELS.  WILLIAM  CRANCH  BOND. 

Louis  AGASSIZ.  THOMAS  EWBANK. 

BENJAMIN  PIERCE.  J.  C.  FREMONT. 

BENJAMIN  SILLIMAN.  JOSEPH  HENRY 

JAMES  D.  DANA.  JOSEPH  WARREN. 

The  poetry  of  phvsics  and  the  natural  sciences,  and  the  grand  epics  of  mathe- 
matics, terrestrial  and  celestial  mechanics,  are  daily  becoming  familiar  to  a  greater 
number  of  pupils,  and  are  destined  to  furnish  the  most  brilliant  ornaments  of 
modern  style. 


202  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


HISTORY,    LAW,    POLITICS,    AKD 
BIOGRAPHY. 

WILLIAM  HICKLING  PRESCOTT.  —  1796.  Salem,  Mass.  Died  1859.  Four  great 
historical  works, —  "  The  Reign  of  Ferdinand  and  Isabella;  "  "  The  Conquest  of  Mex- 
ico; "  "  The  Conquest  of  Peru;  "  "  The  History  of  Philip  II." 

GEORGE  BANCROFT.  — 1800.  Worcester,  Mass.  Author  of  the  most  elaborate 
"  Historv  of  the  United  States,"  of  which  ten  volumes  are  now  published;  the  rest 
to  follow. 

RICHARD  HILDRETH.  — 1897.  "History  of  the  United  States,"  in  six  vols.; 
"Japan  as  It  Was  and  Is." 

JAKKD  SPARKS.  — 1789.  President  of  Harvard  University,  1849  -1852.  "  Letters 
on  the  Ministry,  Ritual,  and  Doctrines  of  the  Protestant-Episcopal  Church;"  Editor 
of  "  The  Unitarian  Miscellany  and  Christian  Monitor;"  "Collection  of  Essays  and 
Tracts  in  Theology,  from  Various  Authors,"  six  vols.;  "  An  Inquiry  into  the  Compar- 
ative Moral  Tendency  of  Trinitarian  and  Unitarian  Doctrines;"  ''Life  of  John  Led- 
yard;"  "The  Diplomatic  Correspondence  of  the  American  Revolution,"  twelve 
vols.;  "The  Life  of  Gouverneur  Morris,"  three  vols.;  "Life  and  Writings  of  Wash- 
ington," twelve  vols. ;  "The  Works  of  Benjamin  Franklin,  with  Notes,  and  a  Life 
of  the  Author,"  ten  vols.;  "  Correspondence  of  the  American  Revolution,  Letters 
of  Eminent  Men  to  George  Washington  to  the  End  of  his  Presidency,"  four  vols. ; 
eight  of  the  six*y  lives  in  "  Library  of  American  Biography;  "  and  "A  History  of 
the  Foreign  Relations  of  the  United"  States  during  the  Revolution." 

JOSIAH  QUINCY. — 1772-1864.  "  Speeches  in  Congress,  and  Orations  on  Various 
Occasions ; "  "  Memoir  of  the  Life  of  John  Quincy  Adams ; "  other  memoirs  and  local 
histories. 

JOHN  WINTHROP. — 1587-1649.  "Diary  of  Events  in  Massachusetts  Colonv  to 
1644." 

COTTON  MATHER.  — 1663-1728.     "  Magnalia  Christi  Americana." 

GEORGE  TICKNOR.  — 1791.     "The  History  of  Spanish  Literature,"  three  vols.; 

"The  Remains  of  Nathaniel  Appleton  Haven,  with  a  Memoir  of  his  Life;"  and 

"  Life  of  Lafayette." 

WILLIAM  WIRT.  BUTLER. 

JAMK.S  WILSON.  McIvKxxEY  AND  HALL. 

DAVID  RAMSEY.  JOHN  ABBOTT. 

JOSEPH  STORY.  CHARLES  FRANCIS  ADAMS. 

HORACE  B.  WALLACE.  WILLIAM  ALLEX. 

RICHARD  H.  WILDE.  JAMES  I).  B    l)EBow. 

JOSIAH  QUINCY.  SAMUEL  KLIOT. 

J.  Q.  ADAMS.  GEORGE  E.  ELLIS. 

FISHER  AMES.  RICHARD  FROTHIXGHAM,  Jun. 

JOHN  ADAMS.  WILLIAM  WILLIS. 

GEORGE  WASHIXGTON.  J.  F.  KIRK. 

WILLIAMSON.  HORACE  GREELEY. 

CAMPBELL.  GEORGE  W.  GREENE. 

STEVENS.  FRANCIS  PARKMAN. 

TRAVELERS. 

JOHN  L    STEVENS.  CHARLES  WILKES. 

EDWARD  ROBINSON.  CALEB  GUSHING. 

JOHN  BARTRAM.  GEORGE  CHEEVER. 

JOHN  WOOLMAN.  BAYARD  TAYLOR. 

TIMOTHY  FLINT  J.  T.  HEADLEY. 

HENRY  SOHOOLCRAFT.  Dr.  KANE. 

JONATHAN  <  'AKVEK.  Dr.  I.  I.  HAYES. 
JOHN  LEDYAUD. 


CHARLES  DICKENS.  203 

CHARLES    DICKENS. 

BORN  1812,  NEAR  PORTSMOUTH,  ENGLAND, 

The  first  of  living  English  novelists.  No  writer  of  fiction  makes  us  more  thor- 
oughly acquainted  with  his  characters.  He  is  the  most  truthful  painter  of  his 
times;  depicting  life,  however,  in  its  humbler  forms  and  in  its  darker  shades.  Hu- 
mor and  pathos  are  equally  natural  to  his  pen.  He  has  visited  America  twice.  On 
his  first  visit,  having  met  vulgarity,  snobbery,  and  servility,  where  he  expected  to 
find  refinement,  nobility,  and  sovereignty,  the  truthful  portraits  of  the  specimens 
lie  studied,  set  down  in  "American  Notes"  and  "Martin  Chuzzlewit,"  did  not  please 
his  American  readers.  But  our  honorable  financial  dealings  with  him  on  his  second 
visit  (a  reading-tour  through  our  principal  cities)  moved  him  to  admit,  by  uote  to 
the  next  edition  of  his  books,  that  we  are  neither  snobs  nor  fools  nor  knaves,  taken 
as  a  whole.* 

PRINCIPAL    PRODUCTIONS. 

"Pickwick  Papers;"  "  David  Copperfield ;"  "  Nicholas  Nickleby; "  "  Barnaby 
Rudge;"  "Our  Mutual  Friend;"  "Little  Dorri^t;"  "Great  Expectations;5' 
"  Dombey  and  Son ;  "  "  Uncommercial  Traveler;  "  "  Old  Curiosity  Shop;  "  "Christ- 
mas Books;"  "Tale  of  Two  Cities;"  "Bleak  House;"  "Martin  Chuzzlewit;" 
"  Sketches  by  Boz;"  "  Pictures  from  Italy; "  "  Oliver  Twist;  "  "  Mysteries  of  Ed- 
win Drood,"  now  publishing. 


SCENES  FROM  THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 

THE  dull  red  glow  of  a  wood-fire  —  for  no  lamp  or  candle 
burnt  within  the  room  —  showed  him  a  figure,  seated  on  the 
hearth  with  its  back  towards  him,  bending  over  the  fitful  light. 
The  attitude  was  that  of  one  who  sought  the  heat.  It  was,  and 
yet  was  not.  The  stooping  posture  and  the  cowering  form  were 
there  ;  but  no  hands  were  stretched  out  to  meet  the  grateful 
warmth,  no  shrug  or  shiver  compared  its  luxury  with  the  pier- 
cing cold  outside.  With  limbs  huddled  together,  head  bowed 
down,  arms  crossed  upon  the  breast,  and  fingers  tightly  clinched, 
it  rocked  to  and  fro  upon  its  seat  without  a  moment's  pause, 
accompanying  the  action  with  the  mournful  sound  he  had  heard. 

The  heavy  door  had  closed  behind  him  on  his  entrance  with  a 
crash  that  made  him  start.  The  figure  neither  spoke,  nor  turned 
to  look,  nor  gave  in  any  other  way  the  faintest  sign  of  having 
heard  the  noise.  The  form  was  that  of  an  old  man,  his  white 
head  akin  in  color  to  the  moldering  embers  upon  which  he 
gazed.  He,  and  the  failing  light  and  dying  fire,  the  time-worn 
room,  the  solitude,  the  wasted  life,  and  gloom,  were  all  in  fellow-' 
ship,  —  ashes  and  dust  and  ruin  ! 

Kit  tried  to  speak,  and  did  pronounce  some  words  ;  though 
what  they  were  he  scarcely  knew.  Still  the  same  terrible  low 
cry  went  on ;  still  the  same  rocking  in  the  chair ;  the  same 

*  Charles  .Dickens  died  suddenly,  June  9, 1870;  and  was  buried  in  Westminster  Abbey. 


204  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

stricken  figure  was  there,  unchanged,  and  heedless  of  his  pres- 
ence. 

He  had  his  hand  upon  the  latch,  when  something  in  the  form  — 
distinctly  seen  as  one  log  broke  and  fell,  and,  as  it  fell,  blazed  up 
—  arrested  it.  He  returned  to  where  he  had  stood  before  ;  ad- 
vanced a  pace  —  another — another  still.  Another,  and  he  saw 
the  face.  Yes !  changed  as  it  was,  he  knew  it  well. 

••  Master!"  he  cried,  stooping  on  one  knee,  and  catching  at  his 
hand,  —  "  dear  master !  Speak  to  me  !  " 

The  old  man  turned  slowly  toward  him,  and  muttered  in  a 
hollow  voice,  — 

"  This  is  another !  How  many  of  these  spirits  there  have 
been  to-night ! " 

••  Xo  spirit,  master;  no  one  but  your  old  servant.  You  know 
me  now,  I  am  sure  ?  Miss  Xell  —  where  is  she  ?  where  is  she  ?  " 

"  They  all  say  that ! "  cried  the  old  man.  "  They  all  ask  the 
same  question.  A  spirit !  " 

"  Where  is  she  ?  "  demanded  Kit.  "  Oh  !  tell  me  but  that,  — 
but  that,  dear  master  !  " 

"She  is  asleep  —  yonder  —  ia  there." 

"Thank  God!" 

"A}r,  thank  God!"  returned  the  old  man.  "I  have  prayed 
to  him  many  and  many  and  many  a  livelong  night  when  she, 
has  been  asleep,  he  knows.  Hark  !  Did  she  call  ?  " 

"  I  heard  no  voice." 

"  You  did.  You  hear  her  now.  Do  you  tell  rne  that  you  don't 
hear  that ?  " 

He  started  up,  and  listened  again. 

'•  Xor  that?"  he  cried  with  a  triumphant  smile.  "Can  any- 
body know  that  voice  so  well  as  I  ?  Hush  !  hush  !  " 

Motioning  to  him  to  be  silent,  he  stole  away  into  another 
chamber.  After  a  short  absence  (during  which  he  could  be 
heard  to  speak  in  a  softened,  soothing  tone),  he  returned,  bearing 
in  his  hand  a  lamp. 

"  She  is  still  asleep  ! "  he  whispered.  "  You  were  right.  She 
did  not  call,  unless  she  did  so  in  her  slumber.  She  has  called  to 
me  in  her  sleep  before  now,  sir.  As  I  have  sat  by,  watching,  I 
have  seen  her  lips  move ;  and  have  known,  though  no  sound  came 
from  them,  that  she  spoke  of  me.  I  feared  the  light  might 
dazzle  her  eyes  and  wake  her:  so  I  brought  it  here. 

He  spoke  rather  to  himself  than  to  the  visitor ;  but,  when  he 
had  put  the  lamp  upon  the  tablf,  he  took  it  up.  as  if  impelled  by 
some  momentary  recollection  or  curiosity,  and  held  it  near  his 
face.  Then,  as  if  forgetting  his  motive  in  the  very  action,  he 
turned  away,  and  put  it  down  again. 

"  §he  is  sleeping  soundly,"  he  said ;  "  but  no  wonder.     Angel- 


CHARLES   DICKENS.  205 

hands  have  strewn  the  ground  deep  with  snow,  that  the  lightest 
footstep  may  be  lighter  yet ;  and  the  very  birds  are  dead,  that 
they  may  not  wake  her.  She  used  to  feed  them,  sir.  Though 
never  so  cold  and  hungry,  the  timid  things  would  fly  from  us. 
They  never  flew  from  her  !  " 

Again  he  stopped  to  listen,  and,  scarcely  drawing  breath,  lis- 
tened for  a  long,  long  time.  That  fancy  past,  he  opened  an 
old  chest,  took  out  some  clothes  as  fondly  as  if  they  had  been 
living  tilings,  and  began  to  smooth  and  brush  them  with  his  hand. 

"  Why  dost  thou  lie  so  idle  there,  dear  Nell,"  he  murmured, 
"  when  there  are  bright  red  berries  out  of  doors  waiting  for  thee 
to  pluck  them  ?  Why  dost  thou  lie  so  idle  there,  when  thy  little 
friends  come  creeping  to  the  door,  crying,  (  Where  is  Nell,  sweet 
Nell? 'and  sob  and  weep  because  they  do  not  see  thee  ?  She 
was  always  gentle  with  children.  The  wildest  would  do  her  bid- 
ding. She  had  a  tender  way  with  them  ;  indeed  she  had." 

Kit  had  no  power  to  speak.     His  eyes  were  tilled  with  tears. 

"  Her  little  homely  dress,  her  favorite,"  cried  the  old  man, 
pressing  it  to  his  breast,  and  patting  it  with  his  shriveled  hand. 
"  She  will  miss  it  when  she  wakes.  They  have  hid  it  here  in 
sport :  but  she  shall  have  it ;  she  shall  have  it.  I  would  not  vex 
my  darling  for  the  wide  world's  riches.  See  here,  —  these  shoes, 
how  worn  they  are  !  She  kept  them  to  remind  her  of  our  last 
long  journey.  You  see  where  the  little  feet  went  bare  upon  the 
ground.  They  told  me  afterwards  that  the  stones  had  cut  and 
bruised  them.  S/ie  never  told  me  that.  No,  no,  God  bless  her! 
And  I  have  remembered  since,  she  walked  behind  me,  sir,  that  I 
might  not  see  how  lame  she  was ;  but  yet  she  had  my  hand  in 
hers,  and  seemed  to  lead  me  still." 

He  pressed  them  to  his  lips,  and,  having  carefully  put  them 
back  again,  went  on  communing  with  himself,  looking  wistfully 
from  time  to  time  towards  the  chamber  he  had  lately  visited. 

"  She  was  not  wont  to  be  a  lie-abed ;  but  she  was  well  then. 
We  must  have  patience.  When  she  is  well  again,  she  will  rise 
earty,  as  she  used  to  do,  and  ramble  abroad  in  the  healthy  morn- 
ing-time. I  often  tried  to  track  the  way  she  had  gone  ;  but  her 
small  footstep  left  no  print  upon  the  dewy  ground  to  guide  me. 
Who  is  that?  Shut  the  door.  Quick  !  Have  we  not  enough  to 
to  do  to  drive  away  that  marble  cold,  and  keep  her  warm  ?  " 

The  door  was  indeed  opened  for  the  entrance  of  Mr.  Garland 
and  his  friend,  accompanied  by  two  other  persons.  These  were 
the  schoolmaster  and  the  bachelor.  The  former  held  a  light 
in  his  hand.  He  had,  it  seemed,  but  gone  to  his  own  cottage  to 
replenish  the  exhausted  lamp  at  the  moment  when  Kit  came  up 
and  found  the  old  man  alone. 

He  softened  again  at  sight  of  these  two  friends,  and,  laying 


206  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

aside  the  angry  manner  (if  to  any  tiling  so  feeble  and  so  sad  the 
term  can  be  applied)  in  which  he  had  spoken  when  the  door 
opened,  resumed  his  former  seat,  and  subsided  by  little  and  little 
into  the  old  action,  and  the  old,  dull," wandering  sound. 

Of  the  strangers  he  took  no  heed  whatever.  He  had  seen 
them,  but  appeared  quite  incapable  of  interest  or  curiosity.  The 
younger  brother  stood  apart.  The  bachelor  drew  a  chair  towards 
the  old  man,  and  sat  down  close  beside  him.  After  a  long 
silence,  he  ventured  to  speak. 

"  Another  night,  and  not  in  bed  ?  "  he  said  softly.  "  I  hoped 
you  would  be  more  mindful  of  your  promise  to  me.  Why  do  you 
not  take  some  rest  ?  " 

"  Sleep  has  left  me,"  returned  the  old  man.  "  It  is  all  with 
her." 

"  It  would  pain  her  very  much  to  know  that  you  were  watching 
thus,"  said  the  bachelor.  "You  would  not  give  her  pain?" 

11 1  am  not  so  sure  of  that,  if  it  would  only  rouse  her.  She 
has  slept  so  very  long  !  And  yet  I  am  rash  to  say  so.  It  is  a  good 
and  happy  sleep,  eh  ?" 

"Indeed  it  is!"  returned  the  bachelor;  "indeed,  indeed,  it  is!" 

"  That's  well.       And  the  waking  ?  "  faltered  the  old  man. 

"  Happy  too, — happier  than  tongue  can  tell,  or  heart  of  man 
conceive." 

They  watched  him  as  he  rose  and  stole  on  tiptoe  to  the  other 
chamber  where  the  lamp  had  been  replaced.  They  listened  as  he 
spoke  again  within  its  silent  walls.  They  looked  into  the  faces 
of  each  other;  and  no  man's  cheek  was  free  from  tears.  He  came 
back,  whispering  that  she  was  still  asleep,  but  that  he  thought 
she  had  moved.  It  was  her  hand,  he  said,  —  a  little,  a  very, 
very  little;  but  he  was  pretty  sure  she  had  moved  it, — perhaps 
in  seeking  his.  He  had  known  her  do  that  before  now,  though 
in  the  deepest  sleep  the  while.  And,  when  he  had  said  this,  he 
dropped  into  his  chair  again,  and,  clasping  his  hands  above  his 
head,  uttered  a  cry  never  to  be  forgotten. 

The  poor  schoolmaster  motioned  to  the  bachelor  that  he  would 
come  on  the  other  side,  and  speak  to  him.  They  gently  unlocked 
his  fingers,  which  he  had  twisted  in  his  gray  hair,  and  pressed 
them  in  their  own. 

"  He  will  hear  me,"  said  the  schoolmaster,  "  I  am  sure.  He  will 
hear  either  me  or  you  if  we  beseech  him.  She  would  at  all  times." 

"  I  will  hear  any  voice  she  liked  to  hear,"  cried  the  old  man. 
"  I  love  all  she  loved." 

"I  know  you  do,"  returned  the  schoolmaster:  "lam  certain 
of  it.  Think  of  her;  think  of  all  the  sorrows  and  afflictions  you 
have  shared  together,  of  all  the  trials  and  all  the  peaceful  pleas- 
ures you  have  jointly  known." 


CHARLES   DICKENS.  207 

"I  do  ;  I  do.     I  think  of  nothing  else." 

"  I  would  have  you  think  of  nothing  else  to-night,  — of  noth- 
ing but  those  things  which  will  soften  your  heart,  dear  friend, 
and  open  it  to  old  affections  and  old  times.  It  is  so  that  she 
would  speak  to  you  herself;  and  in  her  name  it  is  that  I  speak 
now." 

"You  do  well  to  speak  softly,"  said  the  old  man.  "We  will 
not  wake  her.  I  should  he  glad  to  see  her  eyes  again,  and  to  see 
her  smile.  There  is  a  smile  upon  her  young  face  now  :  but  it  is 
fixed  and  changeless.  I  would  have  it  come  and  go.  That  shall 
be  in  Heaven's  good  time.  We  will  not  wake  her." 

"  Let  us  not  talk  of  her  in  her  sleep,  but  as  she  used  to  be 
when  you  were  journeying  together,  far  away;  as  she  was  at 
home,  in  the  old  house  from  which  you  fled  together;  as  she  was 
in  the  old  cheerful  time,"  said  the  schoolmaster. 

"  She  was  always  cheerful,  very  cheerful,"  cried  the  old  man, 
looking  steadfastly  at  him.  "  There  was  ever  something  mild 
and  quiet  about  her,  I  remember,  from  the  first ;  but  she  was  of 
a  happy  nature." 

"We  have  heard  you  say,"  pursued  the  schoolmaster,  "that 
in  this,  and  in  all  goodness,  she  was  like  her  mother.  You  can 
think  of  and  remember  her  ?  " 

He  maintained  his  steadfast  look,  but  gave  no  answer. 

"  Or  even  one  before  her?"  said  the  bachelor.  "It  is  many 
years  ago,  and  affliction  makes  the  time  longer ;  but  you  have  not 
forgotten  her  whose  death  contributed  to  make  this  child  so  dear 
to  you,  even  before  you  knew  her  worth,  or  could  read  her  heart  ? 
Say  that  you  could  carry  back  your  thoughts  to  very  distant 
days, — to  the  time  of  your  early  life,  when,  unlike  this  fair 
flower,  you  did  not  pass  your  youth  alone.  Say  that  you  could 
remember,  long  ago,  another  child  who  loved  you  dearly;  you 
being  but  a  child  yourself.  Say  that  you  had  a  brother,  long 
forgotten,  long  unseen,  long  separated  from  you,  who  now  at  last, 
in  your  utmost  need,  came  back  to  comfort  and  console  you  "  — 

"  To  be  to  you  what  you  were  once  to  him,"  cried  the  younger, 
falling  on  his  knee  before  him;  "to  repay  your  old  affection, 
brother  dear,  by  constant  care,  solicitude,  and  love ;  to  be,  at 
your  right  hand,  what  he  has  never  ceased  to  be  when  oceans 
rolled  between  us ;  to  call  to  witness  his  unchanging  truth,  and 
mindfulness  of  bygone  days,  —  whole  years  of  desolation.  Give 
me  but  one  word  of  recognition,  brother  ;  and  never  —  no,  never  in 
the  brightest  moment  of  our  youngest  days,  when,  poor  silly  boys, 
we  thought  to  pass  our  lives  together  —  have  we  been  half  as  dear 
and  precious  to  each  other  as  we  shall  be  from  this  time  hence." 

The  old  man  looked  from  face  to  face,  and  his  lips  moved ;  but 
no  sound  came  from  them  in  reply. 


208  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

"If  we  were  knit  together  then,"  pursued  the  younger  brother, 
"  what  will  be  the  bond  between  us  now  !  Our  love  and  fellowship 
began  in  childhood,  when  life  was  all  before  us;  and  will  be  re- 
sumed when  we  have  proved  it,  and  are  but  children  at  the  last. 
As  many  restless  spirits  who  have  hunted  fortune,  fame,  or 
pleasure,  through  the  world,  retire  in  their  decline  to  where  they 
first  drew  breath,  vainly  seeking  to  be  children  once  again  before 
they  die  ;  so  we,  less  fortunate  than  they  in  early  life,  but  happier 
in  its  closing  scenes,  will  set  up  our  rest  again  among  our  boyish 
haunts,  and  going  home  with  no  hope  realized  that  bad  its 
growth  in  manhood,  carrying  back  nothing  that  we  brought 
away  but  our  old  yearnings  to  each  other,  saving  no  fragment 
from  the  wreck  of  life  but  that  which  first  endeared  it,  may  be, 
indeed,  but  children  as  at  first.  And  even,"  he  added  in  an 
altered  voice,  — "even  if  what  I  dread  to  name  has  come  to  pass, 
—  even  if  that  be  so,  or  is  to  be,  (which  Heaven  forbid  and  spare 
us!)  still,  dear  brother,  we  are  not  apart,  and  have  that  comfort  in 
our  great  affliction." 

By  little  and  little,  the  old  man  had  drawn  back  towards  the 
inner  chamber  while  these  words  were  spoken.  He  pointed 
there  as  he  replied  with  trembling  lips,  — 

"  You  plot  among  you  to  wean  my  heart  from  her.  You  never 
will  do  that;  never  while  I  have  life!  I  have  no  relative  or 
friend  but  her  ;  I  never  had  ;  I  never  will  have.  She  is  all  in  all 
to  me.  It  is  too  late  to  part  us  now.'' 

Waving  them  off  with  his  hand,  and  calling  softly  to  her  as  he 
went,  he  stole  into  the  room.  They  who  were  left  behind  drew 
close  together,  and,  after  a  few  whispered  words  (not  unbroken  by 
emotion,  or  easily  uttered),  followed  him.  They  moved  so  gently, 
that  their  footsteps  made  110  noise  ;  but  there  were  sobs  from 
among  the  group,  and  sounds  of  grief  and  mourning. 

For  she  was  dead.  There,  upon  her  little  bed,  she  lay  at  rest. 
The  solemn  stillness  was  no  marvel  now. 

She  was  dead.  No  sleep  so  beautiful  and  calm,  so  free  from 
trace  of  pain,  so  fair  to  look  upon.  She  seemed  a  creature  fresh 
from  the  hand  of  God,  and  waiting  for  the  breath  of  life ;  not 
one  who  had  lived,  and  suffered  death. 

Her  couch  was  dressed  with  here  and  there  some  winter-berries 
and  green  leaves  gathered  in  a  spot  she  had  been  used  to  favor. 
"  When  I  die,  put  near  me  something  that  has  loved  the  light, 
and  had  the  sky  above  it  always."  Those  were  her  words. 

She  was  dead.  Dear,  gentle,  patient,  noble  Xell  was  dead. 
Her  little  bird,  a  poor  slight  thing  the  pressure  of  a  finger  would 
have  crushed,  was*  stirring  nimbly  in  its  cage;  and  the  strong 
heart  of  its  child-mistress  was  mute  and  motionless  for  ever. 

Where  were  the  traces  of  her  early  cares,  her  sufferings,  and 


CHARLES   DICKENS.  209 

fatigues?  All  gone.  Sorrow  was  dead  indeed  in  her;  but  peace 
ami  perfect  happiness  were  born,  imaged  in  her  tranquil  beauty 
and  profound  repose. 

And  still  her  former  self  lay  there,  unaltered  in  this  change. 
Yes ;  the  old  fireside  had  smiled  upon  that  same  sweet  face  ;  it 
had  passed,  like  a  dream,  through  haunts  of  misery  and  care. 
At  the  door  of  the  poor  schoolmaster  on  the  summer  evening, 
before  the  furnace-fire  upon  the  cold,  wet  night,  at  the  still  bed- 
side of  the  dying  boy,  there  had  been  the  same  mild,  lovely  look. 
So  shall  we  know  the  angels  in  their  majesty  after  death. 

The  old  man  held  one  languid  arm  in  his,  and  had  the  small 
hand  tight  folded  to  his  breast  for  warmth.  It  was  the  hand 
she  had  stretched  out  to  him  with  her  last  smile,  —  the  hand  that 
led  him  on  through  all  their  wanderings.  Ever  and  anon,  he 
pressed  it  to  his  lips  ;  then  hugged  it  to  his  breast  again,  mur- 
muring that  it  was  warmer  now ;  and,  as  he  said  it,  he  looked  in 
agony  to  those  who  stood  around,  as  if  imploring  them  to  help 
her. 

She  was  dead,  and  past  all  help,  or  need  of  it.  The  ancient 
rooms  she  had  seemed  to  till  with  life,  even  while  her  own  was 
waning  fast ;  the  garden  she  had  tended  ;  the  eyes  she  had  glad- 
dened ;  the  noiseless  haunts  of  many  a  thoughtful  hour;  the  paths 
she  had  trodden  as  it  were  but  yesterday,  —  could  know  her  never 
more. 

"  It  is  not,"  said  the  schoolmaster,  as  he  bent  down  to  kiss  her 
on  the  cheek,  and  gave  his  tears  free  vent,  —  "  it  is  not  on  earth 
that  Heaven's  justice  ends.  Think  what  earth  is  compared  with 
the  world  to  which  her  young  spirit  has  winged  its  early  flight; 
and  say,  if  one  deliberate  wish  expressed  in  solemn  terms  above 
this  bed  could  call  her  back  to  life,  which  of  us  would  utter  it  ? " 


SCENES  FROM  "PICKWICK." 
THE    DILEMMA. 

MR.  PICKWICK'S  apartments  in  Goswell  Street,  although  on  a 
limited  scale,  were  not  only  of  a  very  neat  and  comfortable  descrip- 
tion, but  peculiarly  adapted  for  the  residence  of  a  man  of  his 
genius  and  observation.  His  sitting-room  was  the  first  floor 
front;  his  bed-room  was  the  second  floor  front;  and  thus,  whether 
he  was  sitting  at  his  desk  in  the  parlor,  or  standing  before  the 
dressing-glass  in  his  dormitory,  he  had  an  equal  opportunity  of 
contemplating  human  nature  in  all  the  numerous  phases  it  ex- 
hibits in  that  not  more  populous  than  popular  thoroughfare. 

His  landlady,  Mrs.  Bardell,  —  the  relict  and  sole  executrix  of 

14 


210  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

a  deceased  custom-house  officer,  —  was  a  comely  woman  of 
bustling  manners  and  agreeable  appearance,  with  a  natural 
genius  for  cooking,  improved  by  study  and  long  practice  into  an 
exquisite  talent.  There  were  no  children,  no  servants,  no  fowls. 
The  only  other  inmates  of  the  house  were  a  large  man  and  a 
small  boy, — the  first  a  lodger,  the  second  a  production  of  Mrs. 
Bardell's.  The  large  man  was  always  at  home  precisely  at  ten 
o'clock  at  night,  at  which  hour  he  regularly  condensed  himself 
into  the  limits  of  a  dwarfish  French  bedstead  in  the  back  parlor; 
and  the  infantine  sports  and  gymnastic  exercises  of  Master  Bar- 
dell  were  exclusively  confined  to  the  neighboring  pavements  and 
gutters.  Cleanliness  and  quiet  reigned  throughout  the  house ; 
and  in  it  Mr.  Pickwick's  will  was  law. 

To  any  one  acquainted  with  these  points  of  the  domestic 
economy  of  the  establishment,  and  conversant  with  the  admirable 
regulation  of  Mr.  Pickwick's  mind,  his  appearance  and  behavior 
on  the  morning  previous  to  that  which  had  been  fixed  upon  for 
the  journey  to  Eatansvill  would  have  been  most  mysterious  and 
unaccountable.  He  paced  the  room  to  and  fro  with  hurried  steps, 
popped  his  head  out  of  the  window  at  intervals  of  about  three 
minutes  each,  constantly  referred  to  his  watch,  and  exhibited 
niaii\'  other  manifestations  of  impatience  very  unusual  with  him. 
It  was  evident  that  something  of  great  importance  was  in  con- 
templation ;  but  what  that  something  was,  not  even  Mrs.  Bardell 
herself  had  been  enabled  to  discover. 

••  Mrs.  Bardell,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick  at  last,  as  that  amiable 
female  approached  the  termination  of  a  prolonged  dusting  of  the 
apartment.  "  Sir,"  said  Mrs.  Bardell.-  "Your  little  boy  is  a  very 
long  time  gone/'  —  "  Why,  it's  a  good  long  way  to  the  borough, 
sir,"  remonstrated  Mrs.  Bardell.  "Ah!"  said  Mr.  Pickwick, 
"  very  true  :  so  it  is."  Mr.  Pickwick  relapsed  into  silence  ;  and 
Mrs.  Bardell  resumed  her  dusting. 

••  Mrs.  Bardell,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick  at  the  expiration  of  a  few 
minutes.  li  Sir,"  said  Mrs.  Bardell  again.  "  Do  you  think  it's  a 
nvich  greater  expense  to  keep  two  people  than  to  keep  one?"  — 
'•  La.  Mr.  Pickwick  ! "  said  Mrs.  Bardell,  coloring  up  to  the  very 
border  of  her  cap  as  she  fannied  she  observed  a  species  of  matri- 
monial twinkle  in  the  eyes  of  her  lodger,  —  "  la,  Mr.  Pickwick, 
what  a  question!"  —  "Well,  but  do  you?"  inquired  Mr.  Pick- 
wick. "  That  depends,"  said  Mrs.  Bardell,  approaching  the 
duster  very  near  to  Mr.  Pickwick's  elbow,  which  was  planted  on 
the  table,  —  •'•  that  depends  a  good  deal  upon  the  person,  you  know, 
Mr.  Pickwick  ;  and  whether  it's  a  saving  and  careful  person, 
sir."  —  "  That's  very  true,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick.  '•'  But  the  person  I 
have  in  my  eye  (here  he  looked  very  hard  at  Mrs.  Banlell).  I 
think,  possesses  these  qualities;  and  has,  moreover,  a  considerable 


CHARLES   DICKENS.  211 

knowledge  of  the  world,  and  a  great  deal  of  sharpness,  Mrs.  Bar- 
dell,  which  may  be  of  material  use  to  me." 

"  La,  Mr.  Pickwick !  "  said  Mrs.  Bardell,  the  crimson  rising  to 
her  cap-border  again.  "  I  do,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  growing 
energetic,  as  was  his  wont  in  speaking  of  a  subject  which  interested 
him,  —  "I  do  indeed ;  and  to  tell  you  the  truth,  Mrs.  Bardell,  I 
have  made  up  my  mind."  —  "Dear  me,  sir!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Bar- 
dell. "  You'll  think  it  not  very  strange  now,"  said  the  amiable 
Mr.  Pickwick  with  a  good-humored  glance  at  his  companion, 
"that  I  never  consulted  you  about  this  matter,  and  never  men- 
tioned it  till  I  sent  your  little  boy  out  this  morning,  eh?" 

Mrs.  Bardell  could  only  reply  by  a  look.  She  had  long  wor- 
shiped Mr.  Pickwick  at  a  distance ;  but  here  she  was,  all  at  once, 
raised  to  a  pinnacle  to  which  her  wildest  and  most  extravagant 
hopes  had  never  dared  to  aspire.  Mr.  Pickwick  was  going 
to  propose :  a  deliberate  plan  too,  —  sent  her  little  boy  to  the 
borough  to  get  him  out  of  the  way.  How  thoughtful !  how 
considerate  !  "  Well,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  "  what  do  you  think  ?  " 
—  "  0  Mr.  Pickwick  !  "  said  Mrs.  Bardell,  trembling  with  agi- 
tation, "  you're  very  kind,  sir."  — "  It  will  save  you  a  great 
deal  of  trouble,  won't  it  ?  "  said  Mr.  Pickwick.  "  Oh  !  I  never 
thought  any  thing  of  the  trouble,  sir,  "  replied  Mrs.  Bardell ; 
"  and,  of  course,  I  should  take  more  trouble  to  please  3^011  then 
than  ever :  but  it  is  so  kind  of  you,  Mr.  Pickwick,  to  have  so 
much  consideration  for  my  loneliness  ! " 

"  Ah  !  to  be  sure,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick  :  "  I  never  thought  of 
that.  When  I  am  in  town,  you'll  always  have  somebody  to  sit 
with  you.  To  be  sure,  so  you  will."  —  "  I'm  sure  I  ought  to  be  a 
very  happy  woman,"  said  Mrs.  Bardell.  "And  your  little 
boy,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick.  "  Bless  his  heart ! "  interposed  Mrs. 
Bardell  with  a  maternal  sob.  "He,  too,  will  have  a  companion," 
resumed  Mr.  Pickwick;  "a  lively  one,,  who'll  teach  him,  I'll  be 
bound,  more  tricks  in  a  week  than  he  would  ever  learn  in  a 
year."  And  Mr.  Pickwick  smiled  placidly. 

"  Oh,  you  dear ! "  said  Mrs.  Bardell.  Mr.  Pickwick  started. 
"Oh,  you  kind,  good,  playful  dear !  "  said  Mrs.  Bardell ;  and,  with- 
out more  ado,  she  rose  from  her  chair,  and  flung  her  arms  round 
Mr.  Pickwick's  neck  with  a  cataract  of  tears  and  a  chorus  of 
sobs.  "  Bless  my  soul  !  "  cried  the  astonished  Mr.  Pickwick. 
"  Mrs.  Bardell,  my  good  woman  !  —  dear  me,  what  a  situation  !  — 
pray,  consider.  Mrs.  Bardell,  don't  —  if  anybody  should  come  "  — 
"Oh  !  let  them  come,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Bardell  frantically.  "  I'll 
never  leave  you,  dear,  kind,  good  soul ! "  and  with  these  words 
Mrs.  Bardell  clung  the  tighter. 

"Mercy  upon  me!"  said  Mr.  Pickwick  struggling  violently. 
•u  I  hear  somebody  coming  up  the  stairs.  Don't,  don't,  there's  a 


212  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

good  creature,  don't !  "  But  entreaty  and  remonstrance  were  alike 
unavailing :  for  Mrs.  Bardell  had  fainted  in  Mr.  Pickwick's 
arms ;  and,  before  he  could  gain  time  to  deposit  her  on  a  chair, 
Master  Bardell  entered  the  room,  ushering  in  Mr.  Tupmun.  Mr. 
Winkle,  and  Mr.  Snodgrass.  Mr.  Pickwick  was  struck  motionless 
and  speechless.  He  stood  with  his  lovely  burden  in  his  arms, 
gazing  vacantly  on  the  countenances  of  his  friends,  without  the 
slightest  attempt  at  recognition  or  explanation.  They,  in  their 
turn,  stared  at  him ;  and  Master  Bardell,  in  his  turn,  stared  at 
everybody. 

The  astonishment  of  the  Pickwickians  was  so  absorbing,  and 
the  perplexity  of  Mr.  Pickwick  was  so  extreme,  that  they 
might  have  remained  in  exactly  the  same  relative  situation  until 
the  suspended  animation  of  the  lady  was  restored,  had  it  not  been 
for  a  most  beautiful  and  touching  expression  of  filial  affection  on 
the  part  of  her  youthful  son.  Clad  in  a  tight  suit  of  corduroy, 
spangled  with  brass  buttons  of  a  very  considerable  size,  he  at 
first  stood  at  the  door  astounded  and  uncertain :  but,  by  degrees, 
the  impression  that  his  mother  must  have  suffered  some  personal 
damage  pervaded  his  partially-developed  mind;  and,  considering 
Mr.  Pickwick  the  aggressor,  he  set  up  an  appalling  and  semi- 
earthly  kind  of  howling,  and,  butting  forward  with  his  head, 
commenced  assailing  that  immortal  gentleman  about  the  back 
and  legs  with  such  blows  and  pinches  as  the  strength  of  his  arm 
and  the  violence  of  his  excitement  allowed. 

"Take  this  little  villain  away  !"  said  the  agonized  Mr.  Pick- 
wick: "he's  mad!"  —  "What  is  the  matter?"  said  the  three 
tongue-tied  Pickwickians.  "  I  don't  know,"  replied  Mr.  Pick- 
wick pettishly.  "  Take  away  the  boy ! "  (here  Mr.  Winkle 
carried  the  interesting  boy,  screaming  and  struggling,  to  the 
farther  end  of  the  apartment :  )  "now  help  me  to  lead  this  woman 
down  stairs."  —  "  Oil !  I'm  better  now,"  said  Mrs.  Bardell  faintly. 
"  Let  me  lead  you  down  stairs,"  said  the  ever-gallant  Mr.  Tup- 
man.  "  Thank  you,  sir,  'thank  you !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Bardell 
hysterically.  And  down  stairs  she  was  led  accordingly,  accompa- 
nied by  her  affectionate  son. 

"I  can  not  conceive,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick  when  his  friend 
returned,  —  "I  can  not  conceive  what  has  been  the  matter  with 
that  woman.  I  had  merely  announced  to  her  my  intention  of 
keeping  a  man-servant,  when  she  fell  into  the  extraordinary  par- 
oxysm in  which  you  found  her.  Very  extraordinary  thing."  — 
"  Very,"  said  his  three  friends.  "  Placed  me  in  such  an  extremely 
awkward  situation  !  "  continued  Mr.  Pickwick.  "  Very,"  was  the 
reply  of  his  followers,  as  they  coughed  slightly,  and  looked  dubi- 
ouslv  at  each  other. 

This  behavior  was  not  lost  upon  Mr.  Pickwick.     He  remarked 


CHARLES   DICKENS.  213 

their  incredulity.  They  evidently  suspected  him.  "  There  is  a 
man  in  the  passage  now,"  said  Mr.  Tupman.  "It's  the  man 
that  I  spoke  to  you  about,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick :  "  I  sent  for  him 
to  the  borough  this  morning.  Have  the  goodness  to  call  him  up, 
Snodgrass." 

SPEECH    OF    SERJEANT    BUZFUZ. 

"You  heard  from  my  learned  friend,  gentlemen  of  the  jury, 
that  this  is  an  action  for  a  breach  of  promise  of  marriage,  in 
which  the  damages  are  laid  at  fifteen  hundred  pounds.  The 
plaintiff,  gentlemen,  is  a  'widow ;  yes,  gentlemen,  a  widow.  The 
late  Mr.  Bardell,  some  time  before  his  death,  became  the  father, 
gentlemen,  of  a  little  boy.  With  this  little  boy,  the  only  pledge 
of  her  departed  exciseman,  Mrs.  Bardell  shrank  from  the  world, 
and  courted  the  retirement  and  tranquillity  of  Goswell  Street ; 
and  here  she  placed  in  her  front-parlor  window  a  written  placard 
bearing  this  inscription :  f  APARTMENTS  FURNISHED  FOR  A  SIN- 
GLE GENTLEMAN.  INQUIRE  WITHIN.' 

"  Mrs.  Bardell's  opinions  of  the  opposite  sex,  gentlemen,  were 
derived  from  a  long  contemplation  of  the  inestimable  qualities  of 
her  lost  husband.  She  had  no  fear;  she  had  no  distrust,  —  all 
was  confidence  and  reliance.  *  Mr.  Bardell,'  said  the  widow, 
'  was  a  man  of  honor ;  Mr.  Bardell  was  a  man  of  his  word  ;.  Mr. 
Bardell  was  no  deceiver ;  Mr.  Bardell  was  once  a  single  gentle- 
man himself.  To  single  gentlemen  I  look  for  protection,  for 
assistance,  comfort,  and  consolation  ;  in  single  gentlemen  I  shall 
perpetually  see  something  to  remind  me  of  what  Mr.  Bardell  was 
when  he  first  won  my  young  and  untried  affections ;  to  a  single 
gentleman,  then,  shall  my  lodgings  be  let.' 

"  Actuated  by  this  beautiful  and  touching  impulse  (among  the 
best  impulses  of  our  imperfect  nature,  gentlemen),  the  lonely 
and  desolate  widow  dried  her  tears,  furnished  her  first  floor, 
caught  her  innocent  boy  to  her  maternal  bosom,  and  put  the  bill 
tip  in  her  parlor-window.  Did  it  remain  there  long?  No. 
The  serpent  was  on  the  watch ;  the  train  was  laid ;  the  mine  was 
preparing ;  the  sapper  and  miner  was  at  work  !  Before  the  bill  had 
been  in  the  parlor-window  three  days, — three  days,  gentlemen, 
—  a  being,  erect  upon  two  legs,  and  bearing  all  the  outward  sem- 
blance of  a  man,  arid  not  of  a  monster,  knocked  at  the  door  of 
Mrs.  Bardell's  house.  He  inquired  within  ;  he  took  the  lodgings ; 
and,  on  the  very  next  day,  he  entered  into  possession  of  them. 
This  man  was  Pickwick,  —  Pickwick,  the  defendant! 

"Of  this  man  I  will  say  little.  The  subject  presents  but  few 
attractions ;  and_  I,  gentlemen,  am  not  the  man,  nor  are  you, 
gentlemen,  the  men,  to  delight  in  the  contemplation  of  revolting 


214  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

heartlessness  and  of  systematic  villainy.  I  say,  '  systematic  vil- 
lainy,' gentlemen;  and,  when  I  say  'systematic  villainy/  let  me 
tell  the  defendant  Pickwick,  if  he  be  in  court  (as  I  am  informed 
he  is),  that  it  would  have  been  more  decent  in  him,  more  becom- 
ing, if  he  had  stopped  away.  Let  me  tell  him,  further,  that  a 
counsel,  in  the  discharge  of  his  duty,  is  neither  to  be  intimidated, 
nor  bullied,  nor  put  down ;  and  that  any  attempt  to  do  either  the 
one  or  the  other  will  recoil  on  the  head  of  the  attempter,  be  he 
plaintiff,  or  be  he  defendant ;  be  his  name  Pickwick  or  Noakes  or 
Stoakrs  or  Stiles  or  Brown  or  Thompson. 

"  I  shall  show  you,  gentlemen,  that,  for  two  years,  Pickwick  con- 
tinued to  reside  constantly,  and  without  interruption  or  intermis- 
sion, at  Mrs.  BardelPs  house.  I  shall  show  you  that  Mrs.  Bar- 
dell,  during  the  whole  of  that  time,  waited  on  him  ;  attended 
to  his  comforts ;  cooked  his  meals ;  looked  out  his  linen  for  the 
washerwoman  when  it  went  abroad ;  darned,  aired,  and  prepared 
it  for  wear  when  it  came  home ;  and,  in  short,  enjoyed  his  fullest 
trust  and  confidence.  I  shall  show  you,  that,  on  many  occasions, 
he  gave  half-pence,  and  on  some  occasions  even  sixpence,  to  her 
little  boy.  Lshall  prove  to  you,  that  on  one  occasion,  when  he 
returned  from  the  country,  he  distinctly  and  in  terms  offered  her 
marriage  (previously,  however,  taking  special  care  that  there 
should  be  110  witnesses  to  their  solemn  contract)  ;  and  I  am  in  a 
situation  to  prove  to  you,  on  the  testimony  of  three  of  his  own 
friends,  — most  unwilling  witnesses,  gentlemen,  —  most  unwilling 
witnesses,  —  that  on  that  morning  he  was  discovered  by  them 
holding  the  plaintiff  in  his  arms,  and  soothing  her  agitation  by 
his  caresses  and  endearments. 

"  And  now,  gentlemen,  but  one  word  more.  Two  letters  have 
passed  between  these  parties ;  letters  that  must  be  viewed  with  a 
cautious  and  suspicious  eye ;  letters  that  were  evidently  in- 
tended at  the  time,  by  Pickwick,  to  mislead  and  delude  any 
third  parties  into  whose  hands  they  might  fall.  Let  me  read  the 
first:  '  Garra way's,  twelve  o'clock.  Dear  Mrs.  B.  Chops  and 
tomato-sauce.  Yours,  Pickwick.'  Gentlemen,  what  does  this 
mean?  —  {  Chops  and  tomato-sauce.  Yours,  Pickwick.'  Chops 
(gracious  Heavens  !)  and  tomato-sauce  !  Gentlemen,  is  the  hap- 
piness of  a  sensitive  and  confiding  female  to  be  trifled  away  by 
sucli  shallow  artifices  as  these  ? 

"  The  next  has  no  date  whatever,  which  is  in  itself  suspicious : 
'  Dear  Mrs.  B.,  I  shall  not  be  at  home  to-morrow.  Slow  coach.' 
And  then  follows  this  very  remarkable  expression,  — '  Don't 
trouble  yourself  about  the  warming-pan.'  The  '  warming-pan  ' ! 
Whv,  gentlemen,  who  does  trouble  himself  about  a  warming-pan  ? 
Why  is  Mrs.  Bardell  so  earnestly  entreated  not  to  agitate  herself 
about  this  warming-pan,  unless  (as  is  no  doubt  the  carfej  it  is  a  mere 


WILLIAM   MAKEPEACE   THACKERAY.  215 

cover  for  hidden  fire,  — a  mere  substitute  for  some  endearing  word 
or  promise,  agreeably  to  a  preconcerted  system  of  correspondence, 
artfully  contrived  by  Pickwick  with  a  view  to  his  contemplated 
desertion  ?  And  what  does  this  allusion  to  the  slow  coach  mean  ? 
For  aught  I  know,  it  may  be  a  reference  to  Pickwick  himself, 
who  has  most  unquestionably  been  a  criminally  slow  coach  during 
the  whole  of  this  transaction,  but  whose  speed  will  now  be  very 
unexpectedly  accelerated,  and  whose  wheels,  gentlemen,  as  he 
will  find  to  his  cost,  will  very  soon  be  greased,  by  you. 

11  But  enough  of  this,  gentlemen.  It  is  difficult  to  smile  with 
an  aching  heart.  My  client's  hopes  and  prospects  are  ruined  ; 
and  it  is  no  figure  of  speech  to  say  that  her  occupation  is  gone 
indeed.  The  bill  is  down ;  but  there  is  .no  tenant.  Eligible 
single  gentlemen  pass  and  repass ;  but  there  is  no  invitation  for 
them  to  inquire  within  or  without.  All  is  gloom  and  silence  in 
the  house.  Even  the  voice  of  the  child  is  hushed :  his  infant 
sports  are  disregarded  when  his  mother  weeps. 

"  But  Pickwick,  gentlemen,  Pickwick,  the  ruthless  destroyer  of 
this  domestic  oasis  in  the  desert  of  Goswell  Street,  —  Pickwick, 
who  has  choked  up  the  well,  and  thrown  ashes  on  the  sward,  — 
Pickwick,  who  conies  before  you  to-day  with  his  heartless  tomato- 
sauce  and  warming-pans,  —  Pickwick  still  rears  his  head  with 
unblushing  effrontery,  and  gazes  without  a  sigh  on  the  ruin  he  has 
made.  Damages,  gentlemen,  heavy  damages,  is  the  only  pun- 
ishment with  which  you  can  visit  him,  —  the  only  recompense 
you  can  award  to  my  client ;  and  for  those  damages  she  now 
appeals  to  an  enlightened,  a  high-minded,  a  right-feeling,  a  con- 
scientious, a  dispassionate,  a  sympathizing,  a  contemplative  jury 
of  her  civilized  countrymen." 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE   THACKERAY. 

1811-1863. 

Artist  as  well  as  author,  he  has  painted  human  nature  exactly  as  he  saw  it. 
WiHi  wit  and  humor,  expressed  in  excellent  English,  he  ruthlessly  exposed  the  shams 
and  hypocrisies  of  fashionable  society,  and,  fora  time,  about  equally  divided  popular 
fivor  with  Dickens  as  a  novelist/  We  select  from  his  lectures  "Charity  and 
Humor,"  which  admirably  represents  the  man;  but  the  style  of  the  distinguished 
novelist  must  be  learned  by  i-eading  his 


PRINCIPAL,  PRODUCTIONS. 


"  Vanity  Fair;"  "  Pendennis;"  "  The  Newcomes;  "  "  The  Virginians;  "  "The 
Adventures  of  Philip;"  "Henry  Esmond;"  "  Lovel  the  Widower;"  "Miscella- 
nies," five  vole. 


216  ENGLISH   LiTEKATUHE. 


CHARITY  AXD   HUMOR. 

SEVERAL  charitable  ladies  of  this  city,  to  some  of  whom  I  am 
under  great  personal  obligation,  having  thought  that  a  lecture  of 
mine  would  advance  a  benevolent  end  which  they  had  in  view, 
I  have  preferred,  in  place  of  delivering  a  discourse,  which  many 
of  my  hearers  no  doubt  know  already,  upon  a  subject  merely  lite- 
rary or  biographical,  to  put  together  a  few  thoughts,  which  may 
serve  as  a  supplement  to  the  former  lectures,  if  }*ou  like,  and 
which  have  this,  at  least,  in  common  with  the  kind  purpose  which 
l>les  you  here,  —  that  they  rise  out  of  the  same  occasion,  and 
treat  of  charity. 

-;des  contributing  to  our  stock  of  happiness,  to  our  harmless 
laughter  and  amusement,  to  our  scorn  for  falsehood  and  pretension, 
to  our  righteous  hatred  of  hypocrisy,  to  our  education  in  the  per- 
ception of  truth,  our  love  of  honesty,  our  knowledge  of  life,  and 
shrewd  guidance  through  the  world,  have  not  our  humorous 
writers,  our  gay  and  kind  week-day  preachers,  done  much  in  sup- 
port of  that  holy  cause  which  has  assembled  you  in  this  place,  and 
which  you  are  all  abetting?  —  the  cause  of  love  and  charity ;  the 
of  the  poor,  the  weak,  and  the  unhappy ;  the  sweet  mission 
of  love  and  tenderness,  and  peace  and  good-will  toward  men. 
That  same  theme  which  is  urged  upon  you  by  the  eloquence  and 
example  of  good  men  to  whom  you  are  delighted  listeners  on 
sabbath  days  is  taught  in  his  way,  and  according  to  his  power, 
by  the  humorous  writer,  the  commentator  on  every-day  life  and 
manners. 

And  as  you  are  here  assembled  for  a  charitable  purpose,  giving 
your  contributions  at  the  door  to  benefit  deserving  people  who 
need  them  without,  I  like  to  hope  and  think  that  the  men  of  our 
calling  have  done  something  in  aid  of  the  cause  of  charity,  and 
have  helped  with  kind  words  and  kind  thoughts,  at  least,  to  con- 
fer happiness  and  to  do  good. 

If  the  humorous  writers  claim  to  be  week-day  preachers,  have 
they  conferred  any  benefit  by  their  sermons  ?  Are  people  hap- 
pier, better,  better  disposed  to  their  neighbors,  more  inclined  to 
do  works  of  kindness,  to  love,  forbear,  forgive,  pity,  after  reading 
in  Addison,  in  Steele,  in  Fielding,  in  Goldsmith,  in  Hood,  in 
Dickens?  I  hope  and  believe  so,  and  fancy,  that,  in  writing,  they 
are  also  acting  charitably  ;  contributing,  with  the  means  which 
Heaven  supplies  them,  to  forward  the  end  which  brings  you,  too, 
together.  A  love  of  the  human  species  is  a  very  vague  and 
indefinite  kind  of  virtue,  sitting  very  easily  on  a  man,  not  con- 
fining his  actions  at  all,  shining  in  print,  or  exploding  in  para- 
graphs ;  after  which  efforts  of  benevolence,  the  philanthropist  is 


WILLIAM   MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY.  217 

sometimes  said  to  go  home,  and  be  no  better  than  his  neighbors. 
Tartuffe  and  Joseph  Surface,  Stiggins  and  Chadband,  who  are 
always  preaching  fine  sentiments,  and  are  no  more  virtuous  than 
hundreds  of  those  whom  they  denounce  and  whom  they  cheat, 
are  fair  objects  of  mistrust  and  satire ;  but  their  hypocrisy  (the 
homage,  according  to  the  old  saying,  which  vice  pays  to  virtue) 
has  this  of  good  in  it,  —  that  its  fruits  are  good.  A  man  may 
preach  good  morals,  though  he  may  be  himself  but  a  lax  practi- 
tioner :  a  Pharisee  may  put  pieces  of  gold  into  the  charity-plate 
out  of  mere  hypocrisy  and  ostentation ;  but  the  bad  man's  gold 
feeds  the  widow  and  fatherless  as  well  as  the  good  man's.  The 
butcher  and  baker  must  needs  look,  not  to  motives,  but  to  money, 
in  return  for  their  wares.  I  am  not  going  to  hint  that  we  of  the 
literary  calling  resemble  Monsieur  Tartuffe  or  Monsieur  Stiggins ; 
though  there  may  be  such  men  in  our  body,  as  there  are  in  all. 

A  literary  man  of  the  humoristic  turn  is  pretty  sure  to  be  of  a 
philanthropic  nature;  to  have  a  great  sensibility;  to  be  easily 
moved  to  pain  or  pleasure ;  keenly  to  appreciate  the  varieties  of 
temper  of  people  round  about  him,  and  sympathize  in  their 
laughter,  love,  amusement,  tears.  Such  a  man  is  philanthropic, 
man-loving,  by  nature,  as  another  is  irascible  or  red-haired  or  six 
feet  high.  And  so  I  would  arrogate  110  particular  merit  to  lit- 
erary men  for  the  possession  of  this  faculty  of  doing  good,  which 
some  of  them  enjoy.  It  costs  a  gentleman  no  sacrifice  to  be 
benevolent  on  paper;  and  the  luxury  of  indulging  in  the  most 
beautiful  and  brilliant  sentiments  never  makes  any  man  a  penny 
the  poorer.  A  literary  man  is  no  better  than  another,  as  far  as- 
my  experience  goes ;  and  a  man  writing  a  book,  no  better  nor  no 
worse  than  one  who  keeps  accounts  in  a  ledger,  or  follows  any 
other  occupation.  Let  us,  however,  give  him  credit  for  the  good, 
at  least,  which  he  is  the  means  of  doing,  as  we  give  credit  to  a 
man  with  a  million  for  the  hundred  which  he  puts  into  the  plate 
at  a  charity-sermon.  He  never  misses  them :  he  has  made 
them  in  a  moment,  by  a  lucky  speculation ;  and  parts  with  them, 
knowing  that  he  has  an  almost  endless  balance  at  his  bank, 
whence  he  can  call  for  more.  But,  in  esteeming  the  benefaction, 
we  are  grateful  to  the  benefactor  too,  somewhat.  And  so  of  men 
of  genius,  richly  endowed,  and  lavish  in  parting  with  their 
mind's  wealth  :  we  may  view  them  at  least  kindly  and  favorably, 
and  be  thankful  for  the  bounty  of  which  Providence  has  made 
them  the  dispensers. 

I  have  said  myself  somewhere,  I  do  not  know  with  what  cor- 
rectness (for  definitions  never  are  complete),  that  humor  is  wit 
and  love  :  I  am  sure,  at  any  rate,  that  the  best  humor  is  that 
which  contains  most  humanity,  — that  which  is  flavored  throughout 
with  tenderness  and  kindness.  This  love  does  not  demand  con- 


218  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

stant  utterance  or  actual  expression ;  as  a  good  father,  in  conver- 
sation with  his  children  or  wife,  is  not  perpetually  embracing 
them,  or  making  protestations  of  his  love;  as  a  lover  in  the 
society  of  his  mistress  is  not,  at  least  as  far  as  I  am  led  to  be- 
lieve, for  ever  squeezing  her  hand,  or  sighing  in  her  ear,  "  My 
soul's  darling,  I  adore  you  !  "  He  shows  his  love  by  his  conduct, 
by  his  fidelity,  by  his  watchful  desire  to  make  the  beloved  person 
happy.  It  lightens  from  his  eyes  when  she  appears,  though  he 
may  not  speak  it ;  it  fills  his  heart  when  she  is  present  or 
absent ;  influences  all  his  words  and  actions ;  suffuses  his  whole 
being.  It  sets  the  father  cheerily  to  work  through  the  long  day ; 
supports  him  through  the  tedious  labor  of  the  weary  absence  or 
journey ;  and  sends  him  happy  home  again,  yearning  towards  the 
wife  and  children.  This  kind  of  love  is  not  a  spasm,  but  a  life. 
It  fondles  and  caresses  at  due  seasons,  no  doubt ;  but  the  fond 
heart  is  always  beating  fondly  and  truly,  though  the  wife  is  not 
sitting  hand  in  hand  with  him,  or  the  children  hugging  at  his 
knee.  And  so  with  a  loving  humor.  I  think  it  is  a  genial 
writer's  habit  of  being ;  it  is  the  kind,  gentle  spirit's  way  of  look- 
ing out  on  the  world,  —  that  sweet  friendliness  which  fills  his 
heart  and  his  style.  You  recognize  it,  even  though  there  may 
not  be  a  single  point  of  wit  or  a  single  pathetic  touch  in  the 
page,  though  you  may  not  be  called  upon  to  salute  his  genius  by 
a  laugh  or  a  tear.  That  collision  of  ideas  which  provokes  the 
one  or  the  other  must  be  occasional.  They  must  be  like  papa's 
embraces,  which  I  spoke  of  anon,  who  only  delivers  them  now 
and  then,  and  can  not  be  expected  to  go  on  kissing  the  children 
all  night.  And  so  the  writer's  jokes  and  sentiment,  his  ebulli- 
tions of  feeling,  his  outbreaks  of  high  spirits,  must  not  be  too 
frequent.  One  tires  of  a  page  of  which  every  sentence  sparkles 
with  points ;  of  a  sentimentalist  who  is  always  pumping  the  tears 
from  his  eyes  or  your  own.  One  suspects  the  genuineness  of  the 
tear,  the  naturalness  of  the  humor:  these  ought  to  be  true  and 
manly  in  a  man,  as  every  thing  else  in  his  life  should  be  manly 
and  true ;  and  he  loses  his  dignity  by  laughing  or  weeping  out 
of  place,  or  too  often. 

When  the  Rav.  Laurence  Sterne  begins  to  sentimentalize  over 
the  carriage  in  Monsieur  Dessein's  courtyard,  and  pretends  to 
squeeze  a  tear  out  of  a  rickety  old  shandrydan ;  when,  presently, 
he  encounters  the  dead  donkey  on  his  road  to  Paris,  and  snivels 
over  that  asinine  corpse,  —  I  say,  "Away,  you  drivelling  quack  !  do 
not  palm  off  these  grimaces  of  grief  upon  simple  folks  who  know 
no  better,  and  cry,  misled  by  your  hypocrisy."  Tears  are  sacred. 
The  tributes  of  kind  hearts  to  misfortune,  the  mites  which  gentle 
souls  drop  into  the  collections  made  for  God's  poor  and  unhappy, 
are  not  to  be  tricked  out  of  them  by  a  whimpering  hypocrite 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY.  210 

handing  round  a  begging-box  for  jour  compassion,  and  asking 
your  pity  for  a  lie.  When  that  same  man  tells  me  of  Lefevre's 
illness  and  Uncle  Toby's  charity,  of  the  noble  at  Rennes  com- 
ing home  and  reclaiming  his  sword,  I  thank  him  for  the  generous 
emotion,  which,  springing  genuinely  from  his  own  heart,  has 
caused  mine  to  admire  benevolence,  and  sympathize  with  honor, 
and  to  feel  love  and  kindness  and  pity. 

If  I  do  not  love  Swift  (as,  thank  God !  I  do  not,  however  im- 
mensely I  may  admire  him),  it  is  because  I  revolt  from  the  man 
who  placards  himself  as  a  professional  hater  of  his  own  kind ; 
because  he  chisels  his  savage  indignation  on  his  tombstone,  as 
if  to  perpetuate  his  protest  against  being  born  of  our  race,  —  the 
suffering,  the  weak,  the  erring,  the  wicked,  if  you  will,  but  still 
the  friendly,  the  loving  children  of  God  our  Father  :  it  is  because, 
as  I  read  through  Swift's  dark  volumes,  I  never  find  the  aspect 
of  Nature  seems  to  delight  him,  the  smiles  of  children  to  please 
him,  the  sight  of  wedded  love  to  soothe  him.  I  do  not  remem- 
ber, in  any  line  of  his  writing,  a  passing  allusion  to  a  natural 
scene  of  beauty.  When  he  speaks  about  the  families  of  his  com- 
rades and  brother-clergymen,  it  is  to  assail  them  with  gibes  and 
scorn,  and  to  laugh  at  them  brutally  for  being  fathers  and  for 
being  poor.  He  does  mention  in  the  journal  to  Stella  a  sick 
child,  to  be  sure,  a  child  of  Lady  Masham,  that  was  ill  of  the 
small-pox ;  but  then  it  is  to  confound  the  brat  for  being  ill,  and 
the  mother  for  attending  to  it  when  she  should  have  been  busy 
about  a  court  intrigue  in  which  the  dean  was  deeply  engaged. 
And  he  alludes  to  a  suitor  of  Stella's,  and  a  match  she  might 
have  made,  and  would  have  made,  very  likely,  with  an  honorable 
and  faithful  and  attached  man,  Tisdall,  who  loved  her ;  and  of 
whom  Swift  speaks,  in  a  letter  to  this  lady,  in  language  so  foul, 
that  you  would  not  bear  to  hear  it.  In  treating  of  the  good  the 
humorists  have  done,  of  the  love  and  kindness  they  have  taught 
and  left  behind  them,  it  is  not  of  this  one  I  dare  speak.  Heaven 
help  the  lonely  misanthrope !  be  kind  to  that  multitude  of  sins, 
with  so  little  charity  to  cover  them. 

Of  Mr.  Congreve's  contributions  to  the  English  stock  of 
benevolence,  I  do  not  speak ;  for,  of  any  moral  legacy  to  pos- 
terity, I  doubt  whether  that  brilliant  man  ever  thought  at 
all.  He  had  some  money,  as  I  have  told;  every  shilling  of 
which  he  left  to  his  friend  the  Duchess  of  Maryborough,  a  lady 
of  great  fortune  and  the  highest  fashion.  He  gave  the  gold 
of  his  brains  to  persons  of  fortune  and  fashion  too.  There  is 
no  more  feeling  in  his  comedies  than  in  as  many  books  of 
Euclid.  He  no  more  pretends  to  teach  love  for  the  poor,  and 
good-will  for  the  unfortunate,  than  a  dancing-master  does:  he 
teaches  pirouettes  and  flic-fla'cs,  and  how  to  bow  to  a  lady, 


220  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

and  to  walk  a  minuet.  In  his  private  life,  Congreve  was  im- 
mensely liked,  —  more  so  than  any  man  of  his  age,  almost, —  and, 
to  have  been  so  liked,  must  have, been  kind  and  good-natured. 
His  good  nature  bore  him  through  extreme  bodily  ills  and  pain 
with  uncommon  cheerfulness  and  courage.  Being  so  gay,  so 
bright,  so  popular,  such  a  grand  seigneur,  be  sure  he  was  kind  to 
those  about  him,  generous  to  his  dependants,  serviceable  to  his 
friends.  Society  does  not  like  a  man  so  long  as  it  liked  Congreve, 
unless  he  is  likable  ;  it  finds  out  a  quack  very  soon ;  it  scorns  a 
poltroon  or  a  curmudgeon.  We  may  be  certain  that  this  man  was 
brave,  good-tempered,  and  liberal.  So,  very  likely,  is  Monsieur 
Pirouette,  of  whom  we  spoke  :  he  cuts  his  capers,  he  grins,  bows, 
and  dances  to  his  fiddle.  In  private,  he  may  have  a  hundred 
virtues  ;  in  public,  he  teaches  dancing.  His  business  is  cotil- 
lons, not  ethics. 

As  much  may  be  said  of  those  charming  and  lazy  epicureans, 
Gay  and  Prior,  —  sweet  lyric  singers,  comrades  of  Anacreon,  and 
disciples  of  love  and  the  bottle.  "  Is  there  any  moral  shut  within 
the  bosom  of  a  rose?"  sings  our  great  Tennyson.  Does  a  night- 
ingale preach  from  a  bough,  or  the  lark  from  his  cloud  ?  Not 
knowingly ;  yet  we  may  be  grateful,  and  love  larks  and  roses,  and 
the  flower-crowned  minstrels  too,  who  laugh  and  who  sing. 

Of  Addison's  contributions  to  the  charity  of  the  world,  I  have 
spoken  before  in  trying  to  depict  that  noble  figure,  and  say  now, 
as  then,  that  we  should  thank  him  as  one  of  the  greatest  bene- 
factors of  that  vast  and  immeasurably  spreading  family  which 
speaks  our  common  tongue.  Wherever  it\is  spoken,  there  is  no 
man  that  does  not  feel  and  understand  and  use  the  noble 
English  word  "  gentleman."  And  there  is  no  man  that  teaches 
us  to  be  gentlemen  better  than  Joseph  Addison,  —  gentle  in  our 
bearing  through  life  ;  gentle  and  courteous  to  our  neighbors ; 
gentle  in  dealing  with  his  follies  and  weaknesses  ;  gentle  in 
treating  his  opposition ;  deferential  to  the  old  ;  kindly  to  the 
poor,  and  those  below  us  in  degree  (for  people  above  us  and 
below  us  we  must  find,  in  whatever  hemisphere  we  dwell, 
whether  kings  or  presidents  govern  us)  :  and  in  no  republic  or 
monarchy  that  I  know  of  is  a  citizen  exempt  from  the  tax  of 
befriending  poverty  and  weakness,  of  respecting  age,  and  of  hon- 
oring his  father  and  mother. 

It  has  just  been  whispered  to  me,  —  I  have  not  been  three 
months  in  the  country,  and,  of  course,  can  not  venture  to  express 
an  opinion  of  my  own,  —  that,  in  regard  to  paying  this  latter  tax 
of  respect  and  honor  to  age,  some  very  few  of  the  republican 
youths  are  occasionally  a  little  remiss.  I  have  heard  of  young 
sons  of  freedom  publishing  their  Declaration  of  Independence 
before  they  could  well  spell  it;  and  cutting  the  connection 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE   THACKERAY.  221 

between  father  and  mother  before  they  had  learned  to  shave. 
My  own  time  of  life  having  been  stated  by  various  enlightened 
organs  of  public  opinion  at  almost  any  figure  from  forty-five  to 
sixty,  I  cheerfully  own  that  I  belong  to  the  Fogy  interest,  and 
ask  leave  to  rank  in,  and  plead  for,  that  respectable  class.  Now, 
a  gentleman  can  but  be  a  gentleman  in  Broadway  or  the  back- 
woods, in  Pall-Mali  or  California ;  and  where  and  whenever  he 
lives,  thousands  of  miles  away  in  the  wilderness,  or  hundreds  of 
years  hence,  I  am  sure  that  reading  the  writings  of  this  true 
gentleman,  this  true  Christian,  this  noble  Joseph  Addison,  must 
do  him  good.  He  may  take  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley  to  the  dig- 
gings with  him,  and  learn  to  be  gentle  and  good-humored  and 
urbane  and  friendly  in  the  midst  of  that  struggle  in  which  his 
life  is  engaged.  I  take  leave  to  say,  that  the  most  brilliant 
youth  of  this  city  may  read  over  this  delightful  memorial  of  a 
bygone  age,  of  fashions  long  passed  away,  of  manners  long 
since  changed  and  modified,  of  noble  gentlemen,  and  a  great 
and  a  brilliant  and  polished  society,  and  find  in  it  much  to 
charm  and  polish,  to  refine  and  instruct  him,  —  a  courteousness 
which  can  be  out  of  place  at  no  time,  and  under  no  flag  ;  a  polite- 
ness and  simplicity ;  a  truthful  manhood ;  a  gentle  respect  and 
deference,  which  may  be  kept  as  the  unbought  grace  of  life,  and 
cheap  defence  of  mankind,  long  after  its  old  artificial  distinctions, 
after  periwigs  and  small-swords,  and  ruffles  and  red-heeled  shoes, 
and  titles  and  stars  and  garters,  have  passed  away.  I  will  tell 
you  when  I  have  been  put  in  mind  of  two  of  the  finest  gentlemen 
books  bring  us  any  mention  of;  I  mean  our  books  (not  books 
of  history,  but  books  of  humor)  ;  I  will  tett  you  when  I  have 
been  put  in  mind  of  the  courteous  gallantry  of  the  noble  knight 
Sir  Roger  de  Coverley  of  Coverley  Manor,  of  the  noble  Hidalgo 
Don  Quixote  of  La  Mancha,  —  here  in  your  own  omnibus- 
carriages  and  railway-cars,  when  I  have  seen  a  woman  step  in, 
handsome  or  not,  well-dressed  or  not,  and  a  workman  in  hobnail 
shoes,  or  a  dandy  in  the  hight  of  the  fashion,  rise  up  and  give 
her  his  place.  I  think  Mr.  Spectator,  with  his  short  face,  if  he 
had  seen  such  a  deed  of  courtesy,  would  have  smiled  a  sweet 
smile  to  the  doer  of  that  gentleman-like  action,  and  have  made 
him  a  low  bow  from  under  his  great  periwig,  and  have  gone  home 
and  written  a  pretty  paper  about  him. 

I  am  sure  Dick  Steele  would  have  hailed  him,  were  he  dandy 
or  mechanic,  and  asked,  him  to  a  tavern  to  share  a  bottle,  or  per- 
haps half  a  dozen.  Mind,  I  do  not  set  down  the  five  last  flasks 
to  Dick's  score  for  virtue,  and  look  upon  them  as  works  of  the 
most  questionable  supererogation. 

Steele,  as  a  literary  benefactor  to  the  world's  charity,  must 
rank  very  high  indeed ;  not  merely  from  his  givings,  which  were 


22-2  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

abundant,  but  because  his  endowments  are  prodigiously  increased 
in  value  since  he  bequeathed  them,  as  the  revenues  of  the  lands 
bequeathed  to  our  Foundling  Hospital  at  London,  by  honest 
Capt.  Coram,  its  founder,  are  immensely  enhanced  by  the  houses 
since  built  upon  them.  Steele  was  the  founder  of  sentimental 
writing  in  English ;  and  how  the  land  has  been  since  occupied ! 
and  what  hundreds  of  us  have  laid  out  gardens  and  built  up 
tenements  on  Steele's  ground !  Before  his  time,  readers  or  hear- 
ers were  never  called  upon  to  cry  except  at  a  tragedy ;  and  com- 
passion was  not  expected  to  express  itself  otherwise  than  in 
blank  verse,  or  for  personages  much  lower  in  rank  than  a 
dethroned  monarch,  or  a  wido\ved  or  a  jilted  empress.  He 
stepped  off  the  high-heeled  cothurnus,  and  came  down  into  com- 
mon life ;  he  held  out  his  great  hearty  arms,  and  embraced 
us  all ;  he  had  a  bow  for  all  women,  a  kiss  for  all  children,  a 
shake  of  the  hand  for  all  men,  high  or  low ;  he  showed  us 
heaven's  sun  shining  every  day  on  quiet  homes,  —  not  gilded 
palace-roofs  only,  or  court  processions,  or  heroic  warriors  fighting 
for  princesses  and  pitched  battles.  He  took  away  comedy  from 
behind  the  fine  lady's  alcove,  or  the  screen  where  the  libertine 
was  watching  her.  He  ended  all  that  wretched  business  of 
wives  jeering  at  their  husbands;  of  rakes  laughing  wives,  and 
husbands  too,  to  scorn.  That  miserable,  rouged,  tawdry,  spar- 
kling, hollow-hearted  comedy  of  the  Restoration  fled  before  him, 
and,  like  the  wicked  spirit  in  the  fairy-books,  shrank,  as  Steele 
let  the  daylight  in,  and  shrieked  and  shuddered  and  vanished. 
The  stage  of  humorists  has  been  common  life  ever  since  Steele's 
and  Addison's  time,  —  the  joys  and  griefs,  the  aversions  and  sym- 
pathies, the  laughter  and  tears,  of  ^Nature. 

And  here,  coining  off  the  stage,  and  throwing  aside  the  motley 
habit  or  satiric  disguise  in  which  he  had  before  entertained  you, 
mingling  with  the  world,  and  wearing  the  same  coat  as  his  neigh- 
bors, the  humorist's  service  became  straightway  immensely  more 
available,  his  means  of  doing  good  infinitely  multiplied,  his 
success,  and  the  esteem  in  which  he  was  held,  proportionately 
increased.  It  requires  an  effort,  of  which  all  minds  are  not  capa- 
ble, to  understand  Don  Quixote:  children  and  common  people 
still  read  Gulliver  for  the  story  merely.  Many  more  persons  are 
sickened  by  Jonathan  "Wyld  than  can  comprehend  the  satire  of 
it.  Each  of  the  great  men  who  wrote  those  books  was  speaking 
from  behind  the  satiric  mask  I  anon  mentioned.  Its  distortions 
appall  many  simple  spectators ;  its  settled  sneer  or  laugh  is  unin- 
telligible to  thousands,  who  have  not  the  wit  to  interpret  the 
meaning  of  the  visored  satirist  preaching  from  within.  Many  a 
man  was  at  fault  about  Jonathan  Wyld's  greatness,  who  could 
feel  and  relish  Allworthy's  goodness  in  Tom  Jones,  and  Dr. 


WILLIAM   MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY.  223 

Harrison's  in  Amelia,  and  dear  Parson  Adams,  and  Joseph  An- 
drews. We  love  to  read —  we  may  grow  ever  so  old,  but  we  love 
to  read  of  them  still  —  of  love  and  beauty,  of  frankness  and 
bravery  and  generosity.  We  hate  hypocrites  and  cowards  ;  we 
long  to  defend  oppressed  innocence,  and  to  soothe  and  succor 
gentle  women  and  children ;  we  are  glad  when  vice  is  foiled, 
and  rascals  punished ;  we  lend  a  foot  to  kick  Blifil  down  stairs ; 
and,  as  we  attend  the  brave  bridegroom  to  his  wedding  on  the 
happy  marriage-day,  we  ask  the  groomsman's  privilege  to  salute 
the  blushing  cheek  of  Sophia. 

A  lax  morality  in  many  a  vital  point  I  own  in  Fielding ;  but 
a  great  hearty  sympathy  and  benevolence,  a  great  kindness  for 
the  poor,  a  great  gentleness  and  pity  for  the  unfortunate,  a 
great  love  for  the  pure  and  good,  —  these  are  among  the  contribu- 
tions to  the  charity  of  the  world  with  which  this  erring  but 
noble  creature  endowed  it. 

As  for  Goldsmith,  if  the  youngest  and  most  unlettered  person 
here  has.  not  been  happy  with  the  family  at  Wakefield;  has  not 
rejoiced  when  Olivia  returned,  and  been  thankful  for  her  forgive- 
ness and  restoration ;  has  not  laughed  with  delighted  good  humor 
over  Moses'  gross  of  green  spectacles;  has  not  loved  with  all  his 
heart  the  good  vicar,  and  that  kind  spirit  which  created  these 
charming  figures,  and  devised  the  beneficent  fiction  which  speaks 
to  us  so  tenderly,  —  what  call  is  there  for  me  to  speak?  In  this 
place,  and  on  this  occasion,  remembering  these  men,  I  claim 
from  you  your  sympathy  for  the  good  they  have  done,  and  for  the 
sweet  charity  which  they  have  bestowed  on  the  world. 

As  for  the  charities  of  Mr.  Dickens,  multiplied  kindnesses 
which  he  has  conferred  upon  us  all,  upon  our  children,  upon 
people  educated  and  uneducated,  upon  the  myriads  here  and  at 
home  who  speak  our  common  tongue,  —  have  not  you,  have  not  I, 
all  of  us,  reason  to  be  thankful  to  this  kind  friend,  who  soothed 
and  charmed  so  many  hours ;  brought  pleasure  and  sweet  laughter 
to  so  many  homes;  made  such  multitudes  of  children  happy; 
endowed  us  with  such  a  sweet  store  of  gracious  thoughts,  fair 
fancies,  soft  sympathies,  hearty  enjoyments  ?  There  are  creations 
of  Mr.  Dickens's  which  seem  to  me  to  rank  as  personal  benefits,  — 
figures  so  delightful,  that  one  feels  happier  and  better  for  know- 
ing them,  as  one  does  for  being  brought  into  the  society  of  very 
good  men  and  women.  The  atmosphere  in  which  these  people 
live  is  wholesome  to  breathe  in  ;  you  feel  that  to  be  allowed  to 
speak  to  them  is  a  personal  kindness  ;  you  come  away  better  for 
your  contact  with  them ;  your  hands  seem  cleaner  from  having 
the  privilege  of  shaking  theirs.  Was  there  ever  a  better  charity- 
sermon  preached  in  the  world  than  Dickens's  "  Christmas 
Carol "  ?  I  believe  it  occasioned  immense  hospitality  throughout 


224  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

England ;  was  the  means  of  lighting  up  hundreds  of  kind  fires 
at  Christmas  time ;  caused  a  wonderful  outpouring  of  Christmas 
good-feeling,  of  Christmas  punch-brewing,  an  awful  slaughter 
of  Christmas  turkeys,  and  roasting"  and  basting  of  Christmas 
beef.  As  for  this  man's  love  of  children,  that  amiable  organ  at 
the  back  of  his  honest  head  must  be  perfectly  monstrous.  All 
children  ought  to  love  him.  I  know  two  that  do,  and  read  his 
books  ten  times  for  once  that  they  peruse  the  dismal  preachments 
of  their  father.  I  know  one,  who,  when  she  is  happy,  reads 
"Nicholas  Nickleby ;"  when  she  is  unhappy,  reads  "Nicholas  Nic- 
kleby ; "  when  she  is  in  bed,  reads  "  Nicholas  Nickleby ; "  when  she 
has  nothing  to  do,  reads  "Nicholas  Nickleby;"  and,  when  she  has 
finished  the  book,  reads  "  Nicholas  Nickleby  "  over  again.  This 
candid  young  critic,  at  ten  years  of  age,  said,  "  I  like  Mr.  Dick- 
ens's  books  much  better  than  your  books,  papa  ; "  and  frequently 
expressed  her  desire  that  the  latter  author  should  write  a  book 
like  one  of  Mr.  Dickens's  books.  Who  can  ?  Every  man  must 
say  his  own  thoughts  in  his  own  voice,  in  his  own  way :  lucky  is 
he  who  has  such  a  charming  gift  of  Nature  as  this,  which  brings 
all  the  children  in  the  world  trooping  to  him,  and  being  fond  of 
him! 

I  remember,  when  that  famous  "  Nicholas  Nickleby  "  came  out, 
seeing  a  letter  from  a  pedagogue  in  the  north  of  England,  which, 
dismal  as  it  was,  was  immensely  comical.  "Mr.  Dickens's  ill- 
advised  publication,"  wrote  the  poor  schoolmaster,  "has  passed 
like  a  whirlwind  over  the  schools  of  the  north."  He  was  a  pro- 
prietor of  a  cheap  school:  Dotheboys  Hall  was  a  cheap  school. 
There  were  many  such  establishments  in  the  northern  counties. 
Parents  were  ashamed,  that  never  were  ashamed  before,  until  the 
kind  satirist  laughed  at  them ;  relatives  were  frightened ;  scores 
of  little  scholars  were  taken  away ;  poor  schoolmasters  had  to 
shut  their  shops  up ;  every  pedagogue  was  voted  a  Squeers  (and 
many  suffered,  no  doubt,  unjustly) :  but  afterwards  school-boys' 
backs  were  not  so  much  caned;  school-boys'  meat  was  less  tough, 
and  more  plentiful ;  and  school-boys'  milk  was  not  so  sky-blue. 
What  a  kind  light  of  benevolence  it  is  that  plays  round  Crum- 
mies and  the  Phenomenon,  and  all  those  poor  theater-people,  in 
that  charming  book!  What  a  humor  !  and  what  a  good  humor! 
I  coincide  with  the  youthful  critic  whose  opinion  has  just  been  men- 
tioned, and  own  to  a  family  admiration  for  "Nicholas  Nickleby." 

One  might  go  on,  though  the  task  would  be  endless  and  needless, 
chronicling  the  names  of  kind  folks  with  whom  this  kind  genius 
has  made  us  familiar.  Who  does  not  love  the  Marchioness  and 
Mr.  Richard  Swiveller?  Who  does  not  sympathize,  not  only 
with  Oliver  Twist,  but  his  admirable  young  friend  the  Artful 
Dodger  ?  Who  has  not  the  inestimable  advantage  of  possessing 


OTHER    EMINENT  ENGLISH  NOVELISTS.  225 

a  Mrs.  Nickleby  in  his  own  family?  Who  does  not  bless  Sairey 
Gamp,  and  wonder  at  Mrs.  Harris  ?  Who  does  not  venerate  the 
chief  of  that  illustrious  family,  who,  being  stricken  by  misfortune, 
wisely  and  greatly  turned  his  attention  to  "coals,"  —  the  accom- 
plished, the  epicurean,  the  dirty,  the  delightful  Micawber? 

I  may  quarrel  with  Mr.  Dickens's  art  a  thousand  and  a  thou- 
sand times:  I  delight  and  wonder  at  his  genius;  I  recognize  in 
it  —  I  speak  with  awe  and  reverence  —  a  commission  from  that 
Divine  Beneficence,  whose  blessed  task  we  know  it  will  one  day 
be  to  wipe  every  tear  from  every  eye.  Thankfully  I  take  my 
share  of  the  feast  of  love  and  kindness  which  this  gentle  and 
generous  and  charitable  soul  has  contributed  to  the  happiness  of 
the  world.  I  take  and  enjoy  my  share,  and  say  a  benediction 
for  the  meal. 


OTHER  EMINENT   ENGLISH  NOVELISTS. 

Sir  EDWARD  BULWER  LYTTON. — 1805.  Politician,  orator,  and  author  of  great 
distinction.  "  Richelieu,"  "  Lady  of  Lyons,"  and  other  plays;  "  Milton  "  and  "  King 
Arthur,"  in  verse;  "The  Siamese  Twins"  and  "The  New  Timon,"  satires;  "The 
Last  Days  of  Pompeii,"  "Rien/i,"  "The  Last  of  the  Barons,"  "The  Caxtons," 
"  Mv  Novel,"  and  "  What  will  he  Do  with  It?  "  "  Paul  Clifford,"  "  Eugene  Aram," 
and*"  Falkland." 

BENJAMIN  DISRAELI.  — 1805.  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer  under  Lord  Derby, 
and  Premier  in  1868.  His  brilliant  novels  have  a  political  character,  and  give  him 
a  high  place  in  English  literatm-e.  "  Vivian  Grey,"  "The  Young  Duke,"  "  Henri- 
etta Temple,"  "Contarini  Fleming,"  "  Venetia,"  "  The  Wondrous  Tale  of  Alroy," 
"Coningsby,"  "Sybil,"  "  Tancred,"  and  "  Loth  air,"  "Vindication  of  the  English 
Constitution,"  "  Biography  of  Lord  Bentinck,"  &c. 

CHARLES  KINGSLEY.  — 1809.  "Alton  Locke,"  "Westward  Ho!"  "Yeast," 
"Hypatia,"  "  Phsethon,"  "  Alexandria  and  her  Schools,"  "  Glaucus,"  "  Two  Years 
Ago,"  "Water-Babies,"  "Saint's  Tragedy,"  "Andromeda,"  "Miscellanies,"  "Ser- 
mons," "  Poems,"  &c.,  all  of  much  merit. 

FREDERICK  MARRYATT.  — 1792-1848.  Novelist  of  English  sailor-life.  "Frank 
Mildmay,"  "Newton  Forster,"  "  Peter  Simple,"  "Jacob  Faithful,"  "King's  Own," 
"  Pasha'  of  Many  Tales,"  "  Midshipman  Easy,"  "  Snarley  Yow,"  "  Poor  Jack," 
"Masterman  Ready,"  and  other  works,  popular  of  their  kind. 

G.  P.  R.  JAMES.  — 1801-1860.     "Richelieu,"  and  a  long  list  of  novels. 

DOUGLAS  JERROLD.  — 1803-1857.  His  writings  and  conversation  were  full  of 
genuine  wit.  "The  Caudle  Curtain-Lectures,"  "St.  Giles  and  St.  James,"  and 
"  Story  of  a  Feather,"  "Black-eyed  Susan,"  "The  Rent  Day,"  "Men  of  Charac- 
ter," "A  Man  made  of  Money,"  "The  Chronicles  of  Clovernook,"  "The  Bubbles 
of  a  Day,"  and  "  Time  works  Wonders." 

CHARLES  LEVER.  — 1806.  "The  Confessions  of  Harry  Lorrequer,"  "Charles 
O'Malley,"  and  "Jack  Hinton,"  full  of  fun  and  frolic  of  Irish  life;  "Roland  Cash- 
el,"  "The  Knight  of  Gwynne,"  and  "The  Dodd  Family  Abroad,"  and  other  popu- 
lar fictions. 

ANTHONY  TROLLOPE.  — 1815.  "The  Macdermots  of  Ballycloran,"  "  The  War- 
den," "  Burchester  Towers,"  "  The  West  Indies  and  the  Spanish  Main,"  "  Framley 
15 


226  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

Parsonage,"  "  Can  You  forgive  Her?  "  "  The  Last  Chronicle  of  Barset,"  and  several 
other  novels  of  great  merit.     "Ralph,  the  Heir,"  now  publishing. 

CHARLOTTE  BRONTE. —  1816-1855.  Better  known  as  "  Currer  Bell,"  a  novelist 
of  original  power,  true  genius.  "The  Professor,"  "Jane  Eyre,"  "Shirley,"  and 
"  Villette." 

WILKIE  COLLINS.  — 1824.  "Life  of  his  Father,"  "Antonina,"  "The  Frozen 
Deep,"  a  drama;  "The  Dead  Secret,"  '•  Xo  Name,"  "Basil,"  "After  Dark," 
"  Queen  of  Hearts,"  "  Woman  in  White,"  and  others  of  much  popular  favor. 

GEORGE  ELIOT  (Miss  Evans?).  —  Very  popular  author  of  "Scenes  of  Clerical 
Life,"  "Adam  Bede,"  "  The  Mill  on  the"  Floss,"  "Silas  Warner,"  "Felix  Holt," 
"  Romola,"  "  The  Spanish  Gypsy,"  and  "  How  Lisa  loved  the  King." 

WILLIAM  CARLETOX. — 1798.  "Traits  and  Stories  of  the  Irish  Peasantry," 
"  Fardorougha  the  Miser,"  "  Valentine  McClutchy,"  "  Willy  Reilly,"  and  others. 

WILLIAM  H.  AIXSWOUTH.  —  l.SO">.  "  Rockwood,"  "Jack  Sheppard,"  "The 
Tower  of  London,"  "  Old  St.  Paul's,"  and  "  Windsor  Castle,"  of  an  historical  nature. 

SAMUEL  WARREN.  — 1807.  "Passages  from  the  Diary  of  a  Late  Physician," 
"  Ten  Thousand  a  Year,"  and  others. 

DINAH  MARIA  MULOCK.  — 1826.  "The  Ogilvies,"  "John  Halifax,  Gentleman," 
"Olive,"  and  several  others;  also  volume  of  poems. 

JAMES  HAXXAY. — 1827.  "Singleton  Fontenoy,"  "Eustace  Conyers,"  "Lec- 
tures on  Satire  and'Satirists,"  and  "Essays  from  Quarterly  Review." 

ELIZABETH  GASKELL.  —  "Mary  Barton,"  and  "Life  of  C.  Bronte." 

GEORGE  GLEIG.  — 1796.    "  The  Subaltern,"  "The  Chelsea  Pensioners." 

SAMUEL  LOVER.  — 1797.     "Rory  O'More,"  "Handy  Andy,"  and  Irish  songs. 

JOHN  BAXIX.  — 1800-1842.    "  The  O'Hara  Tales." 

AXXE  MARSH.  — 1798.     "  Two  Old  Men's  Tales,"  "  Emilia  Wyndham." 

CATHERINE  GORE.  — 1799-1861.  "  Mothers  and  Daughters ; "  "  Cecil,  or  the  Ad- 
ventures of  a  Coxcomb." 

GERALD  GRIFFIN.  — 1803-1840.     "  The  Munster  Tales,"  "  The  Collegians." 

WILLIAM  H.  MAXWELL.  — 1850.     "  Stories  of  Waterloo,"  "  Hector  O'Halloran." 

AXXA  M.  HALL.  —  "The  Buccaneer,"  "Marian."  "Lights  and  Shadows  of  Irish 
Life." 

ALBERT  SMITH.  — 1816-1860.  "Mont  Blanc  and  China,"  "Christopher  Tad- 
pole," and  "  Mr.  LeJbury." 

SHIRLEY  BROOKS.  — 1816.  "The  Gordian  Knot,"  "Aspen  Court,"  "  The  Silver 
Cord,"  and  others. 

ANGUS  B.  REACH.  — 1821-1856.  "Clement  Lorimer,"  "Leonard  Lindsay," 
"Natural  History  of  Bores  and  Humbugs,"  "  Claret  and  Olives." 

JAMES  GRANT.  — 1822.  "Romance  of  War,"  "Jane  Seton,"  "Memorials  of 
Edinburgh  Castle." 

.  GEORGE  AUGUSTUS  SALA,  —  "Gaslight  and  Daylight  in  London,"  "Hogarth," 
"  Seven  Sons  of  Mammon,"  and  others. 

CHARLES  READE.  —  "  Peg  WToffington,"  "  Christie  Johnston,"  "  Never  Too  Late 
to  Mend,"  and  several  others. 

THOMAS  HUGHES.  —  "Scouring  of  the  White  Horse,"  "Tom  Brown's  School- 
Days,"  "  Tom  Brown  at  Oxford." 

FRANK  SMEDLEY.  —  "Frank  Fairlegh's  Lewis  Arundel." 

MAYNE  REID. —  "  Scalp-Hunters." 

GERALDINE  JEWSBURY.  —  "Zoe,"and  "Half-Sisters." 

Mrs.  CATHARINE  CROWE.—  "Susan  Hopley,"  "The  Night-Side  of  Nature." 

And  a  legion,  besides,  of  modern  novelists. 


ALFKED   TENNYSON.  227 

ALFRED    TENNYSON. 

BORN  1810. 

Poet  Laureate  since  1850.  Critics  somewhat  divided  as  to  his  merits.  Resem- 
bles Longfellow;  and  equally  popular  at  home  and  abroad.  The  first  of  living 
English  poets. 

PRINCIPAL   PIECES. 

"  The  May  Queen ; "  "  In  Memoriam ;  "  "  Locksley  Hal'  r"  "  Mand ; "  "  The  Idylls 
of  the  King;'"  u  The  Princess,  a  Medley;  "  "  Morte  d' Arthur; "  "  Godiva;  "  "  Enoch 
Arden  ;"  "The  Holy  Grail." 


IN    MEMORIAM* 
I. 

I  HELD  it  truth,  with  him  who  sings 
To  one  clear  harp  in  divers  tones, 
That  men  may  rise  on  stepping-stones 

Of  their  dead  selves  to  higher  things. 

But  who  shall  so  forecast  the  years, 

And  find  in  loss  a  gain  to  match  ? 

Or  reach  a  hand  through  time  to  catch 
The  far-oil'  interest  of  tears  ? 

Let  Love  clasp  Grief,  lest  both  be  drowned-; 

Let  Darkness  keep  her  raven  gloss : 

Ah !  sweeter  to  be  drunk  with  loss, 
To  dance  with  death,  to  beat  the  ground, 

Than  that  the  victor  Hours  should  scorn 

The  long  result  of  love,  and  boast, 

"  Behold  the  man  that  loved  and  lost ! 
But  all  he  was  is  overworn." 

II. 

OLD  Yew,  which  graspest  at  the  stones 

That  name  the  underlying  dead, 

Thy  fibers  net  the  dreamless  head  ; 
Thy  roots  are  wrapt  about  the  bones. 

The  seasons  bring  the  flower  again, 

And  bring  the  firstling  to  the  flock ; 

And,  in  the  dusk  of  thee,  the  clock 
Beats  out  the  little  lives  of  men. 

Oh  !  not  for  thee  the  glow,  the  bloom, 

Who  changest  not  in  any  gale  ; 

Nor  branding  summer  suns  avail 
To  touch  thy  thousand  years  of  gloom. 

*  A  hundred  and  thirty  short  poems  in  memory  of  the  poet's  friend,  Arthur  II.  Hallam, 


228  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

And  gazing  on  thee,  sullen  tree, 
Sick  for  thy  stubborn  hardihood, 
I  seem  to  fail  from  out  my  blood, 

And  grow  incorporate  into  thee. 

III. 

0  SORROW,  cruel  fellowship ! 

O  Priestess  in  the  vaults  of  Death ! 

0  sweet  and  bitter  in  a  breath  ! 
What  whispers  from  thy  lying  lip  ? 

"  The  stars/'  she  whispers,  "  blindly  run ; 

A  web  is  woven  across  the  sky  ; 

From  out  waste  places  comes  a  cry, 
And  murmurs  from  the  dying  sun ; 

"  And  all  the  phantom,  Nature,  stands, 
With  all  the  music  in  her  tone, 
A  hollow  echo  of  my  own,  — 

A  hollow  form  with  empty  hands." 

And  shall  I  take  a  thing  so  blind  ? 

Embrace  her  as  my  natural  good  ? 

Or  crush  her,  like  a  vice  of  blood, 
Upon  the  threshold  of  the  mind  ? 

IV. 

To  Sleep  I  give  my  powers  away ; 
My  will  is  bondsman  to  the  dark : 

1  sit  within  a  helmless  bark  ; 

And  with  my  heart  I  muse,  and  say,  — 

"  O  heart !  how  fares  it  with  thee  now, 
•    That  thou  shouldst  fail  from  thy  desire, 

Who  scarcely  darest  to  inquire, 
'  What  is  it  makes  me  beat  so  low  ?  ' 

"  Something  it  is  which  thou  hast  lost ; 

Some  pleasure  from  thine  early  years. 

Break,  thou  deep  vase  of  chilling  tears, 
That  grief  hath  shaken  into  frost !  " 

Such  clouds  of  nameless  trouble  cross 
All  night  below  the  darkened  eyes  : 
With  morning  wakes  the  will,  and  cries, 

"  Thou  shalt  not  be  the  fool  of  loss." 

V. 

1  SOMETIMES  hold  it  half  a  sin 

To  put  in  words  the  grief  I  feel ; 
For  words,  like  Nature,  half  reveal, 
And  half  conceal,  the  soul  within. 


ALFRED  TENNYSON.  229 

But,  for  the  unquiet  heart  and  brain, 

A  use  in  measured  language  lies ; 

The  sad  mechanic  exercise, 
Like  dull  narcotics,  numbing  pain. 

In  words,  like  weeds,  I'll  wrap  me  o'er, 

Like  coarsest  clothes  against  the  cold ; 

But  that  large  grief  which  these  infold 
Is  given  in  outline,  and  no  more. 

VI. 

OXE  writes  that  "  other  friends  remain," 

That  u  loss  is  common  to  the  race  ; " 

And  common  is  the  commonplace, 
And  vacant  chaff  well  meant  for  grain. 

That  loss  is  common  would  not  make 

My  own  less  bitter ;  rather  more : 

Too  common  !     Never  morning  wore 
To  evening,  but  some  heart  did  break. 

O  father,  wheresoe'er  thou  be, 

Who  pledgest  now  thy  gallant  son  ! 

A  shot,  ere  half  thy  draught  be  done, 
Hath  stilled  the  life  that  beat  from  thee. 

O  mother,  praying  God  will  save 

Thy  sailor !  while  thy  head  is  bowed, 

His  heavy-shotted  hammock-shroud 
Drops  in  his  vast  and  wandering  grave. 

Ye  know  no  more  than  I  who  wrought 

At  that  last  hour  to  please  him  well ; 

Who  mused  on  all  I  had  to  tell, 
And  something  written,  something  thought : 

Expecting  still  his  advent  home ; 

And  ever  met  him  on  his  way 

With  wishes,  thinking,  "  Here  to-day, 
Or  here  to-morrow,  will  he  come." 

Oh !  somewhere,  meek,  unconscious  dove, 

That  sittest  ranging  golden  hair, 

And  glad  to  find  thyself  so  fair, 
Poor  child,  that  waitest  for  thy  love ! 

For  now  her  father's  chimney  glows 

In  expectation  of  a  guest ; 

And  thinking,  "  This  will  please  him  best," 
She  takes  a  ribbon  or  a  rose  : 

For  he  will  see  them  on  to-night ; 

(And  with  the  thought  her  color  burns :) 

And,  having  left  the  glass,  she  turns 
Once  more  to  set  a  ringlet  right ; 


230  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


And,  even  when  she  turned,  the  curse 

"Had  fallen,  and  her  future  lord 

Was  drowned  in  passing  through  the  ford, 
Or  killed  in  tailing  from  his  horse. 

Oh  !  what  to  her  shall  be  the  end  ? 

And  what  to  me  remains  of  good  ? 

To  her,  perpetual  maidenhood ; 
And  unto  me,  no  second  friend. 

VII. 

DARK  house,  by  which  once  more  I  stand 
Here  in  the  long,  unlovely  street ; 
Doors,  where  my  heart  was  used  to  beat 

So  quickly,  waiting  for  a  hand,  — 

A  hand  that  can  be  clasped  no  more,  — 
Behold  me !  for  I  can  not  sleep ; 
And  like  a  guilty  thing  I  creep 

At  earliest  morning  to  the  door. 

He  is  not  here  :  but  far  away 

The  noise  of  life  begins  again  ; 

And  ghastly  through  the  drizzling  rain 
On  the  bald  street  breaks  the  blank  day. 

VIII. 

A  HAPPY  lover,  who  has  come 

To  look  on  her  that  loves  him  well ; 
Who  'lights,  and  rings  the  gateway-bell, 

And  learns  her  gone,  and  far  from  home  ; 

He  saddens  ;  all  the  magic  light 

Dies  off  at  once  from  bower  and  hall ; 
And  all  the  place  is  dark,  and  all 

The  chambers  emptied  of  delight : 

So  find  I  every  pleasant  spot 

In  which  we  two  were  wont  to  meet,  — 
The  field,  the  chamber,  and  the  street ; 

For  all  is  dark  where  thou  art  not. 

Yet  as  that  other,  wandering  there 
In  those  deserted  walk?,  may  find 
A  flower,  beat  with  rain  and  wind. 

Which  once  she  fostered  up  with  care  : 

So  seems  it  in  my  deep  re^et. 

O  my  forsaken  heart  !  with  thee ; 

And  this  poor  flower  of  poesy. 
Which,  little  cared  for,  fades  not  yet. 


ALFRED  TENNYSON.  231 

But,  since  it  pleased  a  vanished  eye, 

I  go  to  plant  it  on  his  tomb, 

That,  if  it  can,  it  there  may  bloom ; 
Or,  dying,  there  at  least  may  die. 

IX. 

FAIR  ship,  that  from  the  Italian  shore 

Sailest  the  placid  ocean-plains 

With  my  lost  Arthur's  loved  remains, 
Spread  thy  full  wings,  and  waft  him  o'er. 

So  draw  him  home  to  those  that  mourn 

In  vain  :  a  favorable  speed 

Ruffle  thy  mirrored  mast,  and  lead 
Through  prosperous  floods  his  holy  urn. 

All  night  no  ruder  air  perplex 

Thy  sliding  keel,  till  Phosphor,  bright 

As  our  pure  love,  through  early  light 
Shall  glimmer  on  the  dewy  decks. 

Sphere  all  your  lights  around,  above ! 

Sleep,  gentle  heavens  !  before  the  prow  ; 

Sleep,  gentle  winds  !  as  he  sleeps  now,  — 
My  friend,  the  brother  of  my  love; 

My  Arthur,  whom  I  shall  not  see 

Till  all  my  widowed  race  be  run ; 

Dear  as  the  mother  to  the  son, 
More  than  my  brothers  are  to  inc. 

X. 

I  HEAR  the  noise  about  thy  keel ; 

I  hear  the  bell  struck  in  the  night; 

I  see  the  cabin-window  bright ; 
I  see  the  sailor  at  the  wheel. 

Thou  bring'st  the  sailor  to  his  wife, 

And  traveled  men  from  foreign  lands, 

And  letters  unto  trembling  hands, 
And  thy  dark  freight,  —  a  vanished  life. 

So  bring  him.     We  have  idle  dreams  : 

This  look  of  quiet  flatters  thus 

Our  home-bred  fancies  :  oh  !  to  us, 
The  fools  of  habit,  sweeter  seems 

To  rest  beneath  the  clover-sod 

That  takes  the  sunshine  and  the  rains, 

Or  where  the  kneeling  hamlet  drains 
The  chalice  of  the  grapes  of  God, 


232  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Than  if  with  thee  the  roaring  wells 
^Should  gulf  him  fathom-deep  in  brine, 
*And  hands  so  often  clasped  in  mine 

Should  toss  with  tangle  anil  with  shells. 


XI. 

CALM  is  the  morn,  without  a  sound ; 

Calm  as  to  suit  a  calmer  grief; 

And  only  through  the  faded  leaf 
The  chestnut  pattering  to  the  ground. 

Calm  and  deep  peace  on  this  high  wold, 
And  on  these  dews  that  drench  the  furze, 
And  all  the  silvery  gossamers 

That  twinkle  into  green  and  gold. 

Calm  and  still  light  on  yon  great  plain, 
That  sweeps  with  all  its  autumn  bowers, 
And  crowded  farms  and  lessening  towers, 

To  mingle  with  the  bounding  main. 

Calm  and  deep  peace  in  this  wide  air, 
These  leaves  that  redden  to  the  fall ; 
And  in  my  heart,  if  calm  at  all, 

If  any  calm,  a  calm  despair. 

Calm  on  the  seas,  and  silver  sleep, 

And  waves  that  sway  themselves  in  rest ; 
And  dead  calm  in  that  noble  breast, 

Which  heaves  but  with  the  heaving  deep. 

xn. 

Lo !  as  a  dove  when  up  she  springs 

To  bear  through  heaven  a  tale  of  woe,  — 
Some  dolorous  message  knit  below 

The  wild  pulsations  of  her  wings  : 

Like  her  I  go  ;  I  can  not  stay ; 
I  leave  this  mortal  ark  behind,  — 
A  weight  of  nerves  without  a  mind,  — 

And  leave  the  cliffs,  and  haste  away 

O'er  ocean-mirrors  rounded  large, 

And  reach  the  glow  of  southern  skies, 
And  see  the  sails  at  distance  rise, 

And  linger  weeping  on  the  marge, 

And  saying,  "  Comes  he  thus,  my  friend  ? 
Is  this  the  end  of  all  my  care  V  " 
And  circle,  moaning  in  the  air, 

"  Is  this  the  end  ?  is  this  the  end  ?  " 


ALFRED   TENNYSON.  233 

And  forward  dart  again,  and  play 

About  the  prow,  and  back  return 

To  where  the  body  sits,  and  learn 
That  I  have  been  an  hour  away. 


XVIII. 

'Tis  well,  'tis  something,  we  may  stand 
Where  he  in  English  earth  is  laid, 
And  from  his  ashes  may  be  made 

The  violet  of  his  native  land. 

'Tis  little ;  but  it  looks  in  truth 
As  if  the  quiet  bones  were  blest, 
Among  familiar  names  to  rest, 

And  in  the  places  of  his  youth. 

Come  then,  pure  hands,  and  bear  the  head 
That  sleeps,  or  wears  the  mask  of  sleep ; 
And  come,  whatever  loves  to  weep, 

And  hear  the  ritual  of  the  dead. 

Ah  !  yet,  even  yet,  if  this  might  be, 

I,  falling  on  his  faithful  heart, 

Would,  breathing  through  his  lips,  impart 
The  life  that  almost  dies  in  me,  — 

That  dies  not,  but  endures  with  pain, 
And  slowly  forms  the  firmer  mind, 
Treasuring  the  look  it  can  not  find, 

The  words  that  are  not  heard  again. 

XIX. 

THE  Danube  to  the  Severn  gave 

The  darkened  heart  that  beat  no  more : 
They  laid  him  by  the  pleasant  shore, 

And  in  the  hearing  of  the  wave. 

There  twice  a  day  the  Severn  fills ; 
The  salt  sea-water  passes  by, 
And  hushes  half  the  babbling  Wye, 

And  makes  a  silence  in  the  hills. 

The  Wye  is  hushed,  nor  moved  along  ; 
And  hushed  my  deepest  grief  of  all,' 
When,  filled  with  tears  that  can  not  fall, 

I  brim  with  sorrow  drowning  song. 

The  tide  flows  down  ;  the  wave  again 

Is  vocal  in  its  wooded  walls : 

My  deeper  anguish  also  falls, 
And  I  can  speak  a  little  then. 


234  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


XXVII. 

I  ENVY  not  in  any  moods 

The  captive  void  of  noble  rage  ; 
The  linnet  born  within  the  cage, 

That  never  knew  the  summer  woods : 

I  envy  not  the  beast  that  takes 
His  license  in  the  field  of  time, 
Unfettered  by  the  sense  of  crime, 

To  whom  a  conscience  never  wakes : 

Nor,  what  may  count  itself  as  blest, 
The  heart  that  never  plighted  troth, 
But  stagnates  in  the  weeds  of  sloth ; 

Nor  any  want-begotten  rest. 

I  hold  it  true,  whate'er  befall,  — 
I  feel  it  when  I  sorrow  most,  — 
'Tis  better  to  have  loved  and  lost 

Than  never  to  have  loved  at  all. 


CV. 

RIXG  out,  wild  bells,  to  the  wild  sky, 
The  flying  cloud,  the  frosty  light: 
The  year  is  dying  in  the  night ; 

Ring  out,  wild  bells,  and  let  him  die. 

Ring  out  the  old,  ring  in  the  new  ; 
Ring,  happy  bells,  across  the  snow : 
The  year  is  going,  —  let  him  go : 

Ring  out  the  false,  ring  in  the  true. 

Ring  out  the  grief  that  saps  the  mind 
For  those  that  here  we  see  no  more  ; 
Ring  out  the  feud  of  rich  and  poor ; 

Ring  in  redress  to  all  mankind. 

Ring  out  a  slowly-dying  cause, 

And  ancient  forms  of  party  strife ; 
Ring  in  the  nobler  modes  of  life, 

With  sweeter  manners,  purer  laws. 

Ring  out  the  want,  the  care,  the  sin, 
The  faithless  coldness,  of  the  times ; 
Ring  out,  rinse  out,  my  mournful  rhymes, 

But  ring  the  fuller  minstrel  in. 

Ring  out  false  pride  in  place  and  blood, 
The  civic  slander  and  the  spite ; 
Ring  in  the  love  of  truth  and  ri^ht ; 

Ring  in  the  common  love  of  good. 


ALFRED   TENNYSON.  235 

Ring  out  old  shapes  of  foul  disease  ; 

Ring  out  the  narrowing  lust  of  gold  ; 

Ring  out  the  thousand  wars  of  old  ; 
Ring  in  the  thousand  years  of  peace. 

Ring  in  the  valiant  man  and  free, 

The  larger  heart,  the  kindlier  hand  ; 

Ring  out  the  darkness  of  the  land ; 
Ring  in  the  Christ  that  is  to  be. 


THE  CHARGE  OF  THE  LIGHT  BRIGADE. 
1. 

HALF  a  league,  half  a  league, 
Half  a  league  onward, 
All  in  the  valley  of  Death, 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 
"  Forward,  the  Light.  Brigade ! 
Charge  for  the  guns !  "  he  said. 
Into  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 

2. 

"  Forward,  the  Light  Brigade  ! " 
Was  there  a  man  dismayed  ? 
Not  though  the  soldier  knew 

Some  one  had  blundered  : 
Theirs  not  to  make  reply, 
Theirs  not  to  reason  why, 
Theirs  but  to  do  and  die. 
Into  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 

3. 

Cannon  to  right  of  them, 
Cannon  to  left  of  them, 
Cannon  in  front  of  them, 

Volleyed  and  thundered. 
Stormed  at  with  shot  and  shell, 
Boldly  they  rode  and  well : 
Into  the  jaws  of  Death, 
Into  the  mouth  of  Hell, 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 

4. 

Flashed  all  their  sabers  bare, 
Flashed  as  they  turned  in  air, 
Sabering  the  gunners  there, 


236  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


Charging  an  army,  while 

All  the  world  wondered  : 
Plunged  in  the  battery-smoke, 
Right  through  the  line"  they  broke ; 
Cossack  and  Russian 
Reeled  from  the  saber-stroke 

Shattered  and  sundered. 
Then  they  rode  back;  but  not  — 
Not  the  six  hundred. 

5. 

Cannon  to  right  of  them, 
Cannon  to  left  of  them, 
Cannon  behind  them, 

Volleyed  and  thundered  : 
Stormed  at  with  shot  and  shell, 
While  horse  and  hero  fell, 
They  that  had  fought  so  well 
Came  through  the  jaws  of  Death 
Back  from  the  mouth  of  Hell, 
All  that  was  left  of  them,  — 

Left  of  six  hundred. 


When  can  their  glory  fade  ? 
Oh  the  wild  charge  they  made  ! 

All  the  world  wondered. 
Honor  the  charge  they  made ! 
Honor  the  Light  Brigade  !  — 

Noble  six  hundred ! 


ODE  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE  DUKE  OF  WELLINGTON. 

1. 

BURY  the  Great  Duke 

With  an  empire's  lamentation  ; 
Let  us  bury  the  Great  Duke 

To  the  noise  of  the  mourning  of  a  mighty  nation,  — 
Mourning  when  their  leaders  fall, 
Warriors  carry  the  warrior's  pall, 
And  sorrow  darkens  hamlet  and  hall. 

2. 

Where  shall  we  lay  the  man  whom  we  deplore  ? 
Here,  in  streaming  London's  central  roar, 
Let  the  sound  of  those  he  wrought  for, 
And  the  feet  of  those  he  fought  for, 
Echo  round  his  bones  for  evermore. 


ALFRED  TENNYSON.  237 


3. 

Lead  out  the  pageant :  sad  and  slow, 

As  fits  a  universal  woe, 

Let  the  long,  long  procession  go, 

And  let  the  sorrowing  crowd  about  it  grow, 

And  let  the  mournful  martial  music  blow  : 

The  last  great  Englishman  is  low. 

4. 

Mourn  ;  for  to  us  he  seems  the  last, 

Remembering  all  his  greatness  in  the  past. 

No  more  in  soldier  fashion  will  he  greet 

With  lifted  hand  the  gazer  in  the  street. 

O  friends !  our  chief  state-oracle  is  dead  : 

Mourn  for  the  man  of  long-enduring  blood, 

The  statesman-warrior,  moderate,  resolute, 

Whole  in  himself,  a  common  good ; 

Mourn  for  the  man  of  amplest  influence, 

Yet  clearest  of  ambitious  crime, 

Our  greatest,  yet  with  least  pretense,  — 

Great  in  council  and  great  in  war, 

Foremost  captain  of  his  time, 

Rich  in  saving  common  sense, 

And,  as  the  greatest  only  are, 

In  his  simplicity  sublime. 

O  good  gray  head  which  all  men  knew  ! 

O  voice  from  which  their  omens  all  men  drew ! 

O  iron  nerve  to  true  occasion  true  ! 

Oh,  fallen  at  length  that  tower  of  strength 

Which  stood  four-square  to  all  the  winds  that  blew ! 

Such  was  he  whom  we  deplore. 

The  long  self-sacrifice  of  life  is  o'er : 

The  great  world-victor's  victor  will  be  seen  no  more. 

5. 

All  is  over  and  done. 

Render  thanks  to  the  Giver, 

England,  for  thy  son  ; 

Let  the  bell  be  tolled ; 

Render  thanks  to  the  Giver, 

And  render  him  to  the  mold. 

Under  the  cross  of  gold 

That  shines  over  city  and  river, 

There  he  shall  rest  for  ever 

Among  the  wise  and  the  bold. 

Let  the  bell  be  tolled, 

And  a  reverent  people  behold 

The  towering  car,  the  sable  steeds  : 

Bright  let  it  be  with  his  blazoned  deeds, 

Dark  in  its  funeral  fold. 

Let  the  bell  be  tolled  ; 


238  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

And  a  deeper  knell  in  the  heart  be  knolled ; 

And  the  sound  of  the  sorrowing  anthem  rolled 

Through  the  dome  of  the  golden  cross ; 

And  the  volleying  cannon  thunder  his  loss. 

He  knew  their  voices  of  old ; 

For  many  a  time  in  many  a  clime 

His  captain's  ear  has  heard  them  boom, 

Uellowing  victory,  bellowing  doom  ; 

When  he  with  those  deep  voices  wrought, 

Guarding  realms  and  kings  from  shame  ; 

With  those  deep  voices  our  dead  captain  taught 

The  tyrant,  and  asserts  his  claim 

In  that  dread  sound  to  the  great  name 

Which  he  has  worn  so  pure  of  blame, 

In  praise  and  in  dispraise  the  same, — 

A  man  of  well-attempered  frame. 

O  civic  Muse !  to  such  a  name, 

To  such  a  name  for  ages  long, 

To  such  a  name, 

Preserve  a  broad  approach  of  fame, 

And  ever-ringing  avenues  of  song. 

6. 

"Who  is  he  that  cometh,  like  an  honored  guest, 

With  banner  and  with  music,  with  soldier  and  with  priest, 

With  a  nation  weeping,  and  breaking  on  my  rest? " 

"  Mighty  seaman,  this  is  he 

Was  great  by  land  as  thou  by  sea. 

Thine  island  loves  thee  well,  thou  famous  man,  — 

The  greatest  sailor  since  our  world  began. 

Now,  to  the  roll  of  muffled  drums, 

To  thee  the  greatest  soldier  comes ; 

For  this  is  he 

Was  great  by  land  as  thou  by  sea. 

His  foes  were  thine ;  he  kept  us  free. 

Oh  I  give  him  welcome  :  this  is  he, 

Worthy  of  our  gorgeous  rites, 

And  worthy  to  be  laid  by  thee ; 

For  this  is  England's  greatest  son,  — 

He  that  gained  a  hundred  fights, 

Nor  ever  lost  an  English  gun  ; 

This  is  he,  that  far  away, 

Against  the  myriads  of  Assaye, 

Clashed  with  his  fiery  few,  and  won ; 

And  underneath  another  sun, 

Warring  on  a  later  day, 

Round  affrighted  Lisbon  drew 

The  treble  works,  the  vast  designs, 

Of  his  labored  rampart-lines, 

Where  he  greatly  stood  at  bay ; 

Whence  he  issued  forth  anew, 

And  ever  great  and  greater  grew, 


ALFRED   TENNYSON.  239 

Beating  from  the  wasted  vines 

Back  to  France  her  banded  swarms, 

Back  to  France  with  countless  blows, 

Till  o'er  the  hills  her  eagles  flew- 

Past  the  Pyrenean  pines, 

Followed  up  in  valley  and  glen 

With  blare  of  bugle,  clamor  of  men, 

Roll  of  cannon,  and  clash  of  arms, 

And  England  pouring  on  her  foes  : 

Such  a  war  had  such  a  close. 

Again  their  ravening  eagle  rose 

In  anger,  wheeled  on  Europe-shadowing  wings, 

And  barking  for  the  thrones  of  kings  ; 

Till  one,  that  sought  but  Duty's  iron  crown, 

On  that  loud  sabbath  shook  the  spoiler  down: 

A  day  of  onsets  of  despair ! 

Dashed  on  every  rocky  square, 

Their  surging  charges  foamed  themselves  away. 

Last,  the  Prussian  trumpet  blew  : 

Through  the  long-tormented  air 

Heaven  flashed  a  sudden  jubilant  ray; 

And  down  we  swept  and  charged  and  overthrew. 

So  great  a  soldier  taught  us  there 

What  long-enduring  hearts  could  do 

In  that  world's-earthquake,  Waterloo! 

Mighty  seaman,  tender  and  true, 

And  pure  as  he  from  taint  of  craven  guile, 

O  savior  of  the  silver-coasted  isle ! 

O  shaker  of  the  Baltic  and  the  Nile ! 

If  aught  of  things  that  here  befall 

Touch  a  spirit  among  things  divine, 

If  love  of  country  move  thee  there  at  all, 

Be  glad  because  his  bones  are  laid  by  thine 

Ami  through  the  centuries  let  a  people's  voice, 

In  full  acclaim,  — 

A  people's  voice, 

The  proof  and  echo  of  all  human  fame, — 

A  people's  voice,  when  they  rejoice 

At  civic  revel  and  pomp  and  game,  — 

Attest  their  great  commander's  claim 

With  honor,  honor,  honor  to  him,  — 

Eternal  honor  to  his  name." 

7. 

A  people's  voice  !     We  are  a  people  yet. 
Though  all  men  else  their  nobler  dreams  forget, 
Confused  by  brainless  mobs  and  lawless  powers, 
Thank  Him  who  isled  us  here,  and  roughly  set 
His  Saxon  in  blown  seas  and  storming  showers, 
We  have  a  voice  with  which  to  pay  the  debt 
Of  boundless  love  and  reverence  and  regret 
To  those  great  men  who  fought,  and  kept  it  ours. 


240  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

And  keep  it  ours,  O  God !   from  brute  control. 
O  statesmen  !  guard  us  ;  guard  the  eye,  the  soul, 
Of  Europe ;  keep  our  noble  England  whole, 
And  save  the  one  true  seed  of  freedom  sown 
Betwixt  a  people  and  their  ancient  throne,  — 
That  sober  freedom  out  of  which  there  springs 
Our  loyal  passion  for  our  temperate  kings  : 
For,  saving  that,  ye  help  to  save  mankind, 
Till  public  wrong  be  crumbled  into  dust ; 
And  drill  the  raw  world  for  the  march  of  mind, 
Till  crowds  at  length  be  sane,  and  crowns  be  just. 
But  wink  no  more  in  slothful  overtrust. 
Remember  him  who  led  your  hosts  : 
He  bade  you  guard  the  sacred  coasts. 
Your  cannons  molder  on  the  seaward  wall : 
His  voice  is  silent  in  your  council-hall 
For  ever,  and,  whatever  tempests  lower, 
For  ever  silent ;  even  if  they  broke 
In  thunder,  silent :  yet  remember  all 
He  spoke  among  you,  and  the  man  who  spoke  ; 
Who  never  sold  the  truth  to  serve  the  hour, 
Nor  paltered  with  Eternal  God  for  power ; 
Who  let  the  turbid  streams  of  rumor  flow 
Through  either  babbling  world  of  high  and  low ; 
Whose  life  was  work,  whose  language  rife 
With  rugged  maxims  hewn  from  life  ; 
Who  never  spoke  against  a  foe ; 
Whose  eighty  winters  freeze  with  one  rebuke 
All  great,  self-seekers  trampling  on  the  right. 
Truth-teller  was  our  England's  Alfred  named ; 
Truth-lover  was  our  English  Duke : 
Whatever  record  leap  to  light, 
He  never  shall  he  shamed. 

8. 

Lo !  the  leader  in  these  glorious  wars 
Now  to  glorious  burial  slowly  borne, 
Followed  by  the  brave  of  other  lands,  — 
He  on  whom  from  both  her  open  hands 
Lavish  Honor  showered  all  her  stars, 
And  affluent  Fortune  emptied  all  her  horn. 
Yea,  let  all  good  things  await 
Him  who  cares  not  to  be  great 
But  as  he  saves  or  serves  the  State. 
Not  once  or  twice  in  our  rough  island-story, 
The  path  of  duty  was  the  way  to  glory. 
He  that  walks  it,  only  thirsting 
For  the  right,  and  learns  to  deaden 
Love  of  self,  before  his  journey  closes 
He  shall  find  the  stubborn  thistle  bursting 
Into  glossy  purples  which  outredden 
All  voluptuous  garden-roses. 


ALFKED  TENNYSON.  241 

Not  once  or  twice  in  our  fair  island-story, 

The  path  of  duty  was  the  way  to  glory. 

He  that,  ever  following  her  commands, 

On  with  toil  of  heart  and  knees  and  hands, 

Through  the  long  gorge  to  the  far  light  has  won 

His  path  upward,  and  prevailed, 

Shall  find  the  toppling  crags  of  Duty  scaled 

Are  close  upon  the  shininglable-lands 

To  which  our  God  himself  is  moon  and  sun. 

Such  was  he  :  his  work  is  done. 

But,  while  the  races  of  mankind  endure, 

Let  his  great  example  stand 

Colossal,  seen  of  every  land, 

Arid  keep  the  soldier  firm,  the  statesman  pure, 

Till  in  all  lands,  and  through  all  human  story, 

The  path  of  duty  be  the  way  to  glory. 

And  let  the  land  whose  hearths  he  saved  from  shame, 

For  many  and  many  an  age  proclaim 

At  civic  revel  and  pomp  and  game, 

And  when  the  long-illumined  cities  flame, 

Their  ever-loyal  iron  leader's  fame, 

With  honor,  honor,  honor,  honor  to  him,— 

Eternal  honor  to  his  name. 

9. 

Peace !  his  triumph  will  be  sung 

By  some  yet  unmolded  tongue 

Far  on  in  summers  that  we  shall  not  see. 

Peace !  it  is  a  day  of  pain 

For  one  about  whose  patriarchal  knee 

Late  the  little  children  clung. 

Oh,  peace  !  it  is  a  day  of  pain 

For  one  upon  whose  hand  and  heart  and  brain 

Once  the  weight  and  fate  of  Europe  hung. 

Ours  the  pain  :  be  his  the  gain ! 

More  than  is  of  man's  degree 

Must  be  with  us,  watching  here 

At  this  our  great  solemnity. 

Whom  we  see  not  we  revere ; 

We  revere,  and  we  refrain 

From  talk  of  battles  loud  and  vain, 

And  brawling  memories  all  too  free 

For  such  a  wise  humility 

As  befits  a  solemn  fane  : 

We  revere ;  and,  while  we  hear 

The  tides  of  Music's  golden  sea 

Setting  toward  eternity, 

Uplifted  high  in  heart  and  hope  are  we, 

Until  we  doubt  not  that  for  one  so  true 

There  must  be  other,  nobler  work  to  do 

Than  when  he  fought  at  Waterloo ; 

And  victor  he  must  ever  be. 

16 


242  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

For  though  the  Giant  Ages  heave  the  hillr 
And  break  the  shore,  and  evermore 
Make  and  break,  and  work  their  will ; 
Though  world  on  world  in  myriad  myriads  roll 
Round  us,  each  with  different  powers, 
And  other  forms  of  life  than  ours,  — 
What  know  we  greater  than  the  soul  ? 
On  God  and  Godlike  men  we  build  our  trust- 
Hush  !  the  Dead  March  wails  in  the  people's  ears ; 
The  dark  crowd  moves,  and  there  are  sobs  and  tears 
The  black  earth  yawns  ;  the  mortal  disappears  •, 
Ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust : 
He  is  gone  who  seemed  so  great,  — 
Gone ;  but  nothing  can  bereave  him 
Of  the  force  he  made  his  own 
Being  here ;  and  we  believe  him 
Something  far  advanced  in  state, 
And  that  he  wears  a  truer  crown 
Than  any  wreath  that  man  can  weave  him. 
But  speak  no  more  of  his  renown  : 
Lay  your  earthly  fancies  down, 
And  in  the  vast  cathedral  leave  him. 
God  accept  him  1  Christ  receive  him  I 


WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH. 

1770-1850. 

"  The  Lake  school  of  poets  "  was  contemptuously-  so  called  because  Wordsworth, 
Coleridge,  and  Sou  they,  its  founders,  lived  by  the  English  lakes.  Catching  their  in- 
spiration from  the  usually  unheeded  voices  of  Nature,  and  giving  it  utterance  in 
plain,  simple  English,  they  terribly  excited  the  wrath  and  ridicule  of  the  critics. 
Though  steadily  gaining  in  favor,  Wordsworth's  position  as  a  poet  still  divides 
opinion. 

PRINCIPAL.  PP.ODUCTIOXS. 

"Lyrical  Ballads,"  1798;  "White  Doe  of  Rylstone;"  "Peter  Bell;"  "Sonnets 
on  the  River  Duddon;"  "The  Wagoner;"  "Memorials  of  a  Tour  on  the  Conti- 
nent;" "Ecclesiastical  Sonnets;"  "Yarrow  Revisited,  and  Other  Poems;"  "The 
Excursion,"  part  of  an  unfinished  epic.  "  The  Recluse  "  is  his  greatest  work. 


MILTON. 

MILTON,  them  shouldst  be  living  at  this  hour! 
England  hath  need  of  thee  :  she  is  a  fen 
Of  stagnant  waters.     Altar,  sword,  and  pen, 
Fireside,  the  heroic  wealth  of  hall  and  bower, 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH.  243 

Have  forfeited  their  ancient  English  dower 

Of  inward  happiness.     We  are  selfish  men  : 

Oh !  raise  us  up ;  return  to  us  again, 

And  give  us  manners,  virtue,  freedom,  power. 

Thy  soul  was  like  a  star,  and  dwelt  apart ; 

Thou  hadst  a  voice  whose  sound  was  like  the  sea ; 

Pure  as  the  naked  heavens,  majestic,  free  : 

So  didst  thou  travel  on  life's  common  way 

In  cheerful  godliness ;  and  yet  thy  heart 

The  lowliest  duties  on  herself  didst  lay. 


DESPONDENCY    CORRECTED. 

"  ONE  adequate  support 
For  the  calamities  of  mortal  life 
Exists  ;  one  only,  —  an  assured  belief 
That  the  procession  of  our  fate,  howe'er 
Sad  or  disturbed,  is  ordered  by  a  Being 
Of  infinite  benevolence  and  power, 
Whose  everlasting  purposes  embrace 
All  accidents,  converting  them  to  good. 
The  darts  of  anguish  fix  not  where  the  seat 
Of  suffering  hath  been  thoroughly  fortified 
By  acquiescence  in  the  Will  supreme, 
For  time  and  for  eternity ;  by  faith,  — 
Faith  absolute  in  God,  including  hope, 
And  the  defense  that  lies  in  boundless  love 
Of  his  perfections ;  with  habitual  dread 
Of  aught  unworthily  conceived,  endured 
To  the  dishonor  of  his  holy  name. 
Soul  of  our  souls,  and  Safeguard  of  the  world ! 
Sustain,  thou  only  canst,  the  sick  of  heart ; 
Restore  their  languid  spirits,  and  recall 
Their  lost  affections  unto  thee  and  thine  1  " 

Then,  as  we  issued  from  that  covert  nook, 
He  thus  continued,  lifting  up  his  eyes 
To  heaven  :  "  How  beautiful  this  dome  of  sky ! 
And  the  vast  hills  in  fluctuation  fixed 
At  thy  command,  how  awful !     Shall  the  soul, 
Human  and  rational,  report  of  thee 
Even  less  than  these  ?     Be  mute  who  will,  who  can ; 
Yet  I  will  praise  thee  with  impassioned  voice : 
My  lips,  that  may  forget  thee  in  the  crowd, 
Can  not  forget  thee  here,  where  thou  hast  built 
For  thy  own  glory,  in  the  wilderness  ! 
Me  didst  thou  constitute  a  priest  of  thine 
In  such  a  temple  as  we  now  behold 
Reared  for  thy  presence  :  therefore  am  I  bound 
To  worship,  here  and  everywhere,  as  one 


244  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Not  doomed  to  ignorance,  though  forced  to  tread 
From  childhood  up  the  ways  of  poverty ; 
From  unreflecting  ignorance  preserved, 
And  from  debasement  rescued.     By  thy  grace 
The  particle  divine  remained  unquenched ; 
And,  'mid  the  wild  weeds  of  a  rugged  soil, 
Thy  bounty  caused  to  flourish  deatnless  flowers 
From  Paradise  transplanted.     Wintry  age 
Impends ;  the  frost  will  gather  round  my  heart : 
If  the  flowers  wither,  I  am  worse  than  dead  ! 
Come  labor  when  the  worn-out  frame  requires 
Perpetual  sabbath ;  come  disease  and  want, 
And  sad  exclusion  through  decay  of  sense : 
But  leave  me  unabated  trust  in  thee, 
And  let  thy  favor,  to  the  end  of  life, 
Inspire  me  with  ability  to  seek 
Repose  and  hope  among  eternal  things, 
Father  of  heaven  and  earth !  and  I  am  rich, 
And  will  possess  my  portion  in  content. 

"  And  what  are  things  eternal  ?     Powers  depart," 
The  gray-haired  wanderer  steadfastly  replied,  — 
Answering  the  question  which  himself  had  asked, — 
"  Possessions  vanish,  and  opinions  change, 
And  passions  hold  a  fluctuating  seat ; 
But  by  the  storms  of  circumstance  unshaken, 
And  subject  neither  to  eclipse  nor  wane, 
Duty  exists.     Immutably  survive, 
For  our  support,  the  measures  and  the  forms 
Which  an  abstract  intelligence  supplies  ; 
Whose  kingdom  is  where  time  and  space  are  not. 
Of  other  converse  which  mind,  soul,  and  heart 
Do  with  united  urgency  require, 

What  more  that  may  not  perish  ?     Thou  dread  Source, 
Prime,  self-existing  Cause  and  End  of  all 
That  in  the  scale  of  being  fill  their  place, 
Above  our  human  region,  or  below, 
Set  and  sustained ;  Thou  who  didst  wrap  the  cloud 
Of  infancy  around  us,  that  Thyself 
Therein  with  our  simplicity  a  while 
Mightst  hold  on  earth  communion  undisturbed ; 
Who  from  the  anarchy  of  dreaming  sleep, 
Or  from  its  death-like  void,  with  punctual  care, 
And  touch  as  gentle  as  the  morning  light, 
Itestor'st  us  daily  to  the  powers  of  sense 
And  reason's  steadfast  rule,  —  Thou,  Thou  alone, 
Art  everlasting,  and  the  blessed  spirits, 
Which  Thou  includest,  as  the  sea  her  waves  : 
For  adoration  thou  endurest ;  endure 
For  consciousness  the  motions  of  thy  will ; 
For  apprehension  those  transcendent  truths 
Of  the  pure  intellect,  that  stand  as  laws 


WILLIAM  WORDSWOKTH.  245 

(Submission  constituting  strength  and  power) 

Even  to  thy  being's  infinite  majesty  1 

This  universe  shall  pass  away,  —  a  work 

Glorious,  because  the  shadow  of  thy  might ; 

A  step,  or  link,  for  intercourse  with  thee. 

Ah !  if  the  time  must  come  in  which  my  feet 

No  more  shall  stray  where  meditation  leads, 

By  flowing  stream,  through  wood,  or  craggy  wild, 

Loved  haunts  like  these,  the  unimprisoned  Mind 

May  yet  have  scope  to  range  among  her  own, 

Her  thoughts,  her  images,  her  high  desires. 

If  the  dear  faculty  of  sight  should  fail, 

Still  it  may  be  allowed  me  to  remember 

What  visionary  powers  of  eye  and  soul 

In  youth  were  mine,  when,  stationed  on  the  top 

Of  some  huge  hill,  expectant,  I  beheld 

The  sun  rise  up,  from  distant  climes  returned, 

Darkness  to  chase  and  sleep,  and  bring  the  day, 

His  bounteous  gift ;  or  saw  him  toward  the  deep 

Sink,  with  a  retinue  of  flaming  clouds 

Attended  :  then  my  spirit  was  entranced 

With  joy  exalted  to  beatitude  ; 

The  measure  of  my  soul  was  filled  with  bliss 

And  holiest  love,  as  earth,  sea,  air,  with  light, 

With  pomp,  with  glory,  with  magnificence. 

"  Those  fervent  raptures  are  for  ever  flown  ; 
And,  since  their  date,  my  soul  hath  undergone 
Change  manifold  for  better  or  for  worse  : 
Yet  cease  I  not  to  struggle,  and  aspire 
Heavenward,  and  chide  the  part  of  me  that  flags 
Through  sinful  choice,  or  dread  necessity 
On  human  nature  from  above  imposed. 
'Tis,  by  comparison,  an  easy  task 
Earth  to  despise  ;  but  to  converse  with  heaven  — 
This  is  not  easy,     To  relinquish  all 
We  have  or  hope  of  happiness  and  joy, 
And  stand  in  freedom  loosened  from  this  world, 
I  deem  not  arduous;  but  must  needs  confess 
That  'tis  a  thing  impossible  to  frame 
Conceptions  equal  to  the  soul's  desires, 
And  the  most  difficult  of  tasks  to  keep 
Hights  which  the  soul  is  competent  to  gain. 
Man  is  of  dust :  ethereal  hopes  are  his, 
Which,  when  they  should  sustain  themselves  aloft, 
Want  due  consistence  ;  like  a  pillar  of  smoke, 
That  with  majestic  energy  from  earth 
Rises,  but,  having  reached  the  thinner  air, 
Melts  and  dissolves,  and  is  no  longer  seen. 
From  this  infirmity  of  mortal  kind 
Sorrow  proceeds,  which  else  were  not :  at  least, 
If  grief  be  something  hallowed  and  ordained ; 


246  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

If,  in  proportion,  it  be  just  and  meet,  — 

Yet  through  this  weakness  of  the  general  heart 

Is  it  enabled  to  maintain  its  hold 

In  that  excess  which  conscience  disapproves. 

For  who  could  sink  and  settle  to  that  point 

Of  selfishness,  so  senseless  who  could  be, 

As  long  and  perseveringly  to  mourn 

For  any  object  of  his  love  removed 

From  this  unstable  world,  if  he  could  fix 

A  satisfying  view  upon  that  state 

Of  pure,  imperishable  .blessedness 

Which  reason  promises,  and  Holy  Writ 

Insures  to  all  believers  ?     Yet  mistrust 

Is  of  such  incapacity,  methinks, 

No  natural  branch ;  despondency  far  less ; 

And  least  of  all  is  absolute  despair. 

"  And  if  there  be  whose  tender  frames  have  drooped 
Even  to  the  dust,  apparently  through  weight 
Of  anguish  unrelieved,  and  lack  of  power 
An  agonizing  sorrow  to  transmute, 
Deem  not  that  proof  is  here  of  hope  withheld 
When  wanted  most,  —  a  confidence  impaired 
So  pitiably,  that,  having  ceased  to  see 
With  bodily  eyes,  they  are  borne  down  by  love 
Of  what  is  lost,  and  perish  through  regret. 
Oh,  no  !  the  innocent  sufferer  often  sees 
Too  clearly,  feels  too  vividly,  and  longs 
»          To  realize,  the  vision  with  intense 

And  over-constant  yearning :  there,  there  lies 
The  excess  by  which  the  balance  is  destroyed. 
Too,  too  contracted  are  these  walls  of  flesh, 
This  vital  warmth  too  cold,  these  visual  orbs, 
Though  inconceivably  endowed,  too  dim, 
For  any  passion  of  the  soul  that  leads 
To  ecstasy ;  and,  all  the  crooked  paths 
Of  time  and  change  disdaining,  takes  its  course 
Along  the  line  of  limitless  desires. 
I,  speaking  now,  from  such  disorder  free, 
Nor  rapt  nor  craving,  but  in  settled  peace,  — 
I  can  not  doubt  that  they  whom  you  deplore 
Are  glorified,  or,  if  they  sleep,  shall  wake 
From  sleep,  and  dwell  with  God  in  endless  love. 
Hope  below  this  consists  not  with  belief 
In  mercy  carried  infinite  degrees 
Beyond  the  tenderness  of  human  hearts; 
Hope  below  this  consists  not  with  belief 
In  perfect  wisdom,  guiding  mightiest  power, 
That  finds  no  limits  but  her  own  pure  will. 

» 

"  Here,  then,  we  rest,  not  fearing  for  our  creed 
The  worst  that  human  reasoning  can  achieve 


WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH.  247 

To  unsettle  or  perplex  it ;  yet  with  pain 

Acknowledging,  and  grievous  self-reproach, 

That,  though  immovably  convinced,  we  want 

Zeal,  and  the  virtue  to  exist  by  faith, 

As  soldiers  live  by  courage ;  as,  by  strength 

Of  heart,  the  sailor  fights  with  roaring  seas, 

Alas!  the  endowment  of  immortal  power 

Is  matched  unequally  with  custom,  time, 

And  domineering  faculties  of  sense 

In  all ;  in  most,  with  superadded  foes,  — 

Idle  temptations,  open  vanities, 

Ephemeral  offspring  of  the  unblushing  world, 

And,  in  the  private  regions  of  the  mind, 

Ill-governed  passions,  ranklings  of  despite, 

Immoderate  wishes,  pining  discontent, 

Distress,  and  care.     What  then  remains  ?     To  seek 

Those  helps  for  his  occasions  ever  near 

Who  lacks  not  will  to  use  them,  —  vows  renewed 

On  the  first  motion  of  a  holy  thought ; 

Vigils  of  contemplation,  praise,  and  prayer,  — 

A  stream,  which,  from  the  fountain  of  the  heart 

Issuing,  however  feebly,  nowhere  flows 

Without  access  of  unexpected  strength. 

But,  above  all,  the  victory  is  most  sure 

For  him,  who,  seeking  faith  by  virtue,  strives 

To  yield  entire  submission  to  the  law 

Of  conscience,  —  conscience  reverenced  and  obeyed 

As  God's  most  intimate  presence  in  the  soul, 

And  his  most  perfect  image  in  the  world. 

Endeavor  thus  to  live,  these  rules  regard, 

These  helps  solicit,  and  a  steadfast  seat 

Shall  then  be  yours  among  the  happy  few 

Who  dwell  on  earth,  yet  breathe  empyreal  air, 

Sons  of  the  morning.     For  your  nobler  part, 

Ere  disencumbered  of  her  mortal  chains, 

Doubt  shall  be  quelled,  and  trouble  chased  away, 

With  only  such  degree  of  sadness  left 

As  may  support  longings  of  pure  desire, 

And  strengthen  love,  rejoicing  secretly 

In  the  sublime  attractions  of  the  grave." 

While  in  this  strain  the  venerable  sage 
Poured  forth  his  aspirations,  and  announced 
His  judgments,  near  that  lonely  house  we  paced 
A  plot  of  greensward,  seemingly  preserved 
By  Nature's  care  from  wreck  of  scattered  stones, 
And  from  encroachment  of  encircling  hearth  : 
Small  space  !  but,  for  reiterated  steps, 
Smooth  and  commodious  as  a  stately  deck 
Which  to  and  fro  the  mariner  is  used 
To  tread  for  pastime,  talking  with  his  mates, 
Or  haply  thinking  of  far-distant  friends, 


248  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

While  the  ship  glides  before  a  steady  breeze. 

Stillness  prevailed  around  us;  and  the  voice 

That  spake  was  capable  to  lift  the  soul 

Toward  regions  yet  more  tranquil.     But  methought 

That  he  whose  fixed  despondency  had  given 

Impulse  and  motive  to  that  strong  discourse 

Was  less  upraised  in  spirit  than  abashed ; 

Shrinking  from  admonition  like  a  man 

Who  feels  that  to  exhort  is  to  reproach. 

Yet,  not  to  be  diverted  from  his  aim, 

The  sage  continued :  — 

"  For  that  other  loss,  — 
The  loss  of  confidence  in  social  man, 
By  the  unexpected  transports  of  our  age 
Carried  so  high,  that  every  thought  which  looked 
Beyond  the  temporal  destiny  of  ^he  kind 
To  many  seemed  superfluous,  —  as  no  cause 
Could  e'er  for  such  exalted  confidence 
Exist,  so  none  is  now  for  fixed  despair. 
The  two  extremes  are  equally  disowned 
By  reason :  if,  with  sharp  recoil,  from  one 
You  have  been  driven  far  as  its  opposite, 
Between  them  seek  the  point  whereon  to  build 
Sound  expectations.     So  doth  he  advise 
Who  shared  at  first  the  illusion,  but  was  soon 
Cast  from  the  pedestal  of  pride  by  shocks 
Which  Nature  gently  gave  in  woods  and  fields, 
Nor  unreproved  .by  Providence,  thus  speaking 
To  the  inattentive  children  of  the  world :  — 
'  Vainglorious  generation  !  what  new  powers 
On  you  have  been  conferred,  what  gifts  withheld 
From-  your  progenitors  have  ye  received, 
Fit  recompense  of  new  desert,  what  claim 
Are  ye  prepared  to  urge,  that  my  decrees 
For  you  should  undergo  a  sudden  change, 
And,  the  weak  functions  of  one  busy  day 
Reclaiming  and  extirpating,  perform 
What  all  the  slowly-moving  years  of  time, 
With  their  united  force,  have  left  undone  ? 
By  Nature's  gradual  processes  be  taught ; 
By  story  be  confounded.     Ye  aspire 
Rashly,  to  fall  once  more  ;  and  that  false  fruit, 
Which  to  your  overweening  spirits  yields 
Hope  of  a  flight  celestial,  will  produce 
Misery  and  shame.     But  Wisdom  of  her  sons 
Shall  not  the  less,  though  late,  be  justified.' 

"  Such  timely  warning,"  said  the  wanderer, 
"  Gave  that  visionary  voice  :  and  at  this  day, 
When  a  Tartarean  darkness  overspreads 
The  groaning  nations ;  Avhen  the  impious  rule, 
By  will  or  by  established  ordinance, 


WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH.  249 

Their  own  dire  agents,  and  constrain  the  good 
To  acts  which  they  abhor,  —  though  I  bewail 
This  triumph,  yet  the  pity  of  my  heart 
Prevents  me  not  from  owning  that  the  law 
By  which  mankind  now  suffers  is  most  just. 
For  by  superior  energies,  more  strict 
Affiance  in  each  other,  faith  more  firm 
In  their  unhallowed  principles,  the  bad 
Have  fairly  earned  a  victory  o'er  the  weak, 
The  vacillating,  inconsistent  good.    . 

"  Therefore,  not  unconsoled,  I  wait  in  hope 
To  see  the  moment  when  the  righteous  cause 
Shall  gain  defenders  zealous  and  devout 
As  they  who  have  opposed  her ;  in  which  Virtue 
Will  to  her  efforts  tolerate  no  bounds 
That  are  not  lofty  as  her  rights,  aspiring 
By  impulse  of  her  own  ethereal  zeal. 
That  spirit  only  can  redeem  mankind ; 
And  when  that  sacred  spirit  shall  appear, 
Then  shall  our  triumph  be  complete  as  theirs. 
Yet,  should  this  confidence  prove  vain,  the  wise 
Have  still  the  keeping  of  their  proper  peace ; 
Are  guardians  of  their  own  tranquillity. 
They  act  or  they  recede,  observe,  and  feel ; 
'  Knowing  the  heart  of  man  is  set  to  be 
The  center  of  this  world,  about  the  which 
These  revolutions  of  disturbances 
Still  roll ;  where  all  the  aspects  of  misery 
Predominate  ;  whose  strong  effects  are  such 
As  he  must  bear,  being  powerless  to  redress ; 
And  that,  unless  above  himself  he  can 
Erect  himself,  how  poor  a  thing  is  man  ! ' 

"  Happy  is  he  who  lives  to  understand 
Not  human  nature  only,  but  explores 
All  natures,  to  the  end  that  he  may  find 
The  law  that  governs  each,  and  where  begins 
The  union,  the  partition  where,  that  makes 
Kind  and  degree  among  all  visible  beings ; 
The  constitutions,  powers,  and  faculties 
Which  they  inherit,  can  not  step  beyond, 
And  can  not  fall  beneath ;  that  do  assign 
To  every  class  its  station  and  its  office, 
Through  all  the  mighty  commonwealth  of  things, 
Up  from  the  creeping  plant  to  sovereign  man. 
Such  converse,  if  directed  by  a  meek, 
Sincere,  and  humble  spirit,  teaches  love  : 
For  knowledge  is  delight,  and  such  delight 
Breeds  love ;  yet,  suited  as  it  rather  is 
To  thought  and  to  the  climbing  intellect, 
It  teaches  less  to  love  than  to  adore, 
If  that  be  not  indeed  the  highest  love." 


250  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


THOUGHTS    ON  REVISITING    THE    WYE. 

OH,  how  oft 

In  darkness,  and  amid  the  many  shapes 
Of  joyless  daylight,  when  the  fretful  £tir 
Unprofitable,  and  the  fever  of  the  world, 
Have  hung  upon  the  beatings  of  my  heart,  — 
How  oft  in  spirit  have  I  turned  to  thee, 

0  sylvan  Wye  !  thou  wanderer  through  the  woods, — 
How  often  has  my  spirit  turned  to  thee  ! 

And  now,  with  gleams  of  half-extinguished  thought, 

With  many  recognitions  dim  and  faint, 

And  somewhat  of  a  sad  perplexity, 

The  picture  of  the  mind  revives  again 

While  here  I  stand,  not  only  with  the  sense 

Of  present  pleasure,  but  with  pleasing  thoughts 

That  in  this  moment  there  is  life  and  food 

For  future  years.     And  so  I  dare  to  hope, 

Though  changed,  no  doubt,  from  what  I  was  when  first 

1  came  among  these  hills ;  when,  like  a  roe, 
I  bounded  o'er  the  mountains,  by  the  sides 
Of  the  deep  rivers,  and  the  lonely  streams, 
Wherever  Nature  led,  —  more  like  a  man 
Flying  from  something  that  he  dreads  than  one 
Who  sought  the  thing  he  loved.     For  Nature  then  — 
The  coarser  pleasures  of  my  boyish  days 

And  their  glad  animal  movements  all  gone  by  — 
To  me  was  all  in  all.     I  can  not  paint 
What  then  I  was.     The  sounding  cataract 
Haunted  me  like  a  passion  ;  the  tall  rock, 
The  mountain,  and  the  deep  and  gloomy  wood, 
Their  colors  and  their  forms,  were  then  to  me 
An  appetite,  —  a  feeling  and  a  love 
That  had  no  need  of  a  remoter  charm 
By  thought  supplied,  or  any  interest 
Unborrowed  from  the  eye.     That  time  is  past ; 
And  all  its  aching  joys  are  now  no  more, 
And  all  its  dizzy  raptures.     Not  for  this 
Faint  I,  nor  mourn,  nor  murmur :  other  gifts 
Have  followed,  —  for  such  loss,  I  would  believe, 
Abundant  recompense.     For  I  have  learned 
To  look  on  Nature,  not  as  in  the  hour 
Of  thoughtless  youth,  but  hearing  oftentimes 
The  still  sad  music  of  humanity, 
Nor  harsh  nor  grating,  though  of  ample  power 
To  chasten  and  subdue.     And  I  have  felt 
A  presence  that  disturbs  me  with  the  joy 
Of  elevati-d  thoughts,  a  sense  sublime 
Of  something  far  more  deeply  interfused, 
Whose  dwelling  is  the  light  of  setting  suns, 
And  the  round  ocean,  and  the  living  air, 


ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING.  251 

And  the  blue  sky,  and  in  the  mind  of  man  ; 

A  motion  and  a  spirit  that  impels 

All  thinking  things,  all  objects  of  all  thought, 

And  rolls  through  all  things.     Therefore  am  I  still 

A  lover  of  the  meadows  and  the  woods 

And  mountains,  and  of  all  that  we  behold 

From  this  green  earth,  —  of  all  the  mighty  world 

Of  eye  and  ear,  both  what  they  half  create 

And  what  perceive ;  well  pleased  to  recognize 

In  Nature,  and  the  language  of  the  sense, 

The  anchor  of  my  purest  thoughts,  the  nurse, 

The  guide,  the  guardian,  of  my  heart,  and  soul 

Of  all  my  moral  being. 


ELIZABETH    BARRETT    BROWNING. 

DIED  1861. 

The  most  learned,  and  perhaps  the  most  talented,  of  English  female  poets.  Art, 
life,  politics,  and  religion  are  treated  by  her  with  great  vigor  ofx  thought,  and  sim- 
plicity of  language. 

PRINCIPAL    WRITINGS. 

"  Casa  Guidi  Windows,"  a  political  poem;  "The  Seraphim;"  "A  Drama  of 
Exile;"  "The  Duchess  May;"  "Lady  Geraldine's  Courtship;"  "Bertha  in  the 
Lane;  "  "  The  Cry  of  the  Children ; "  "  Cowper's  Grave;  "  "  Prometheus  Bound," 
translation  from  ^Eschylus;  and  "Aurora  Leigh,"  her  greatest  work. 


MOTHER    AND    POET. 
1. 

DEAD  !  —  one  of  them  shot  by  the  sea  in  the  east, 
And  one  of  them  shot  in  the  west  by  the  sea. 

Dead  !  —  both  my  boys  !     When  you  sit  at  the  feast, 
And  are  wanting  a  great  song  for  Italy  free, 
Let  none  look  at  me  ! 

2. 

Yet  I  was  a  poetess  only  last  year ; 

And  good  at  my  art,  for  a  woman,  men  said. 
But  this  woman,  this,  who  is  agonized  here,  — 

The  east  sea  and  west  sea  rhyme  on  in  her  head 
For  ever  instead. 

3. 

What  art  can  a  woman  be  good  at  ?     Oh,  vain  ! 

What  art  is  she  good  at  but  hurting  her  breast 
With  the  milk-teeth  of  babes,  and  a  smile  at  the  pain  ? 

Ah,  boys,  how  you  hurt !    You  were  strong  as  you  pressed, 
And  I  proud  by  that  test. 


252  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

4. 

What  art's  for  a  woman  ?  —  To  hold  "on  her  knees 

Both  darlings ;  to  feel  all  their  arms  round  her  throat 

Cling,  strangle  a  little  ;  to  sew  by  degrees, 

And  'broider  the  long  clothes  and  neat  little  coat ; 
To  dream  and  to  dote. 

5. 

To  teach  them.  ...  It  stings  there.     I  made  them  indeed 
Speak  plain  the  word  "  country."     I  taught  them,  no  doubt, 

That  a  country's  a  thing  men  should  die  for  at  need. 
I  prated  of  liberty,  rights,  and  about 
The  tyrant  turned  out. 

6. 

And,  when  their  eyes  flashed,  —  oh  my  beautiful  eyes !  — 
I  exulted ;  nay,  let  them  go  forth  at  the  wheels 

Of  the  guns,  and  denied  not.     But  then  the  surprise 
When  one  sits  quite  alone !  then  one  weeps,  then  one  kneels. 
God  !  how  the  house  feels ! 

7. 

At  first,  happy  news  came,  in  gay  letters,  moiled 
With  my  kisses,  of  camp-life  and  glory,  and  how 

They  both  loved  me ;  and  soon,  coming  home  to  be  spoiled, 
In  return  would  Ian  off  every  fly  from  my  brow 
With  their  green  laurel-bough. 

8. 

Then  was  triumph  at  Turin.     "  Ancona  was  free  !  " 
And  some  one  came  out  of  the  cheers  in  the  street, 

With  a  face  pale  as  stone,  to  say  something  to  me. 
My  Guido  was  dead !     I  fell  down  at  his  feet 
While  they  cheered  in  the  street. 

9. 

I  bore  it :  friends  soothed  me.     My  grief  looked  sublime 
As  the  ransom  of  Italy.     One  boy  remained 

To  be  leant  on  and  walked  with,  recalling  the  time 

When  the  first  grew  immortal,  while  both  of  us  strained 
To  the  hight  he  had  gained. 

10. 

And  letters  still  came,  —  shorter,  sadder,  more  strong, 
Writ  now  but  in  one  hand.     «•  I  was  not  to  faint. 

One  loved  me  for  two ;  .  .  .  would  be  with  me  ere  long : 
And  '  Viva  Italia '  he  died  for,  our  saint, 
Who  forbids  our  complaint." 


ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWJSING.  253 


11. 

My  Nanni  would  add,  "  He  was  safe,  and  aware 

Of  a  presence  that  turned  off  the  balls  ;  was  imprest 

It  was  Guido  himself,  who  knew  what  I  could  bear ; 

And  how  'twas  impossible,  quite  dispossessed, 

To  live  on  for  the  rest." 

12. 

On  which,  without  pause,  up  the  telegraph-line 

Swept  smoothly  the  next  news  from  Gaeta, —  "  Shot !  " 

Tell  his  mother.     Ah,  ah  !  "  his,"  "  their  "  mother,  not  "  mine/' 
No  voice  says  "  My  mother  "  again  to  me.     What ! 
You  think  Guido  forgot  ? 

13. 

Are  souls  straight  so  happy,  that,  dizzy  with  heaven, 
They  drop  earth's  affection,  conceive  not  of  woe  ? 

I  think  not.     Themselves  were  too  lately  forgiven 
Through  that  love  and  sorrow  which  reconciled  so 
The  above  and  below. 

14. 

0  Christ  of  the  seven  wounds,  who  look'dst  through  the  dark 

To  the  face  of  thy  mother !  consider,  I  pray, 
How  we  common  mothers  stand  desolate  ;  mark 

Whose  sons,  not  being  Christs,  die  with  eyes  turned  away, 
And  no  last  word  to  say ! 

15. 

Both  boys  dead !     But  that's  out  of  nature.    We  all 

Have  been  patriots ;  yet  each  house  must  always  keep  one  : 

'Tvvere  imbecile  hewing*  out  roads  to  a  wall. 

And,  when  Italy's  made,  for  what  end  is  it  done 
If  we  have  not  a  son  ? 

16. 

Ah,  ah,  ah !  when  Gaeta's  taken,  what  then  ? 

When  the  fair  wicked  queen  sits  no  more  at  her  sport 
Of  the  fire-balls  of  death  crashing  souls  out  of  men ; 

When  your  guns  of  Cavalli  with  final  retort 
Have  cut  the  game  short ; 

17. 

When  Venice  and  Home  keep  their  new  jubilee ; 

When  your  flag  takes  all  heaven  for  its  white,  green,  and  red 
When  yon  have  your  country  from  mountain  to  sea ; 

When  King  Victor  has  Italy's  crown  on  his  head, 
(And  I  have  my  dead,)  — 


254  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


18. 

What  then  ?     Do  not  mock  me.     Ah  !  ring  your  bells  low, 
And  burn  your  lights  faintly.     l$y  country  is  there, 

Above  the  star  pricked  by  the  last  peak  of  snow  ; 
My  Italy's  there  with  my  brave  civic  pair, 
To  disfranchise  despair. 

19. 

Forgive  me !     Some  women  bear  children  in  strength, 
And  bite  back  the  cry  of  their  pain  in  self-scorn  ; 

But  the  birth-pangs  of  nations  will  wring  us  at  length 
Into  wail  such  as  this,  and  we  sit  on  forlorn 
When  the  man-child  is  born. 

20. 

Dead  !  —  one  of  them  shot  by  the  sea  in  the  west, 
And  one  of  them  shot  in  tlie  east  by  the  sea, — 

Both,  both  my  boys  !     If,  in  keeping  the  feast, 
You  want  a  great  song  for  your  Italy  free, 
Let  none  look  at  me  ! 


AURORA    LEIGH. 

AND  I  —  I  was  a  good  child,  on  the  whole,  — 
A  meek  and  manageable  child.     Why  not  ? 
I  did  not  live  to  have  the  faults  of  life  : 
There  seemed  more  true  life  in  my  father's  grave 
Than  in  all  England.     Since  that  threw  me  off 
Who  fain  would  cleave  (his  latest  will,  they  say, 
Consigned  me  to  his  land),  I  only  thought 
Of  lying  quiet  there  where  I  was  thrown 
Like  seaweed  on  the  rocks,  and  suffering  her 
To  prick  me  to  a  pattern  with  her  pin, 
Fiber  from  fiber,  delicate  leaf  from  leaf, 
And  dry  out  from  my  drowned  anatomy 
The  last  sea-salt  left  in  me. 

So  it  was. 

I  broke  the  copious  curls  upon  my  head 
In  braids,  because,  she  liked  smooth-ordered  hair. 
I  left  off  saying  my  sweet  Tuscan  words, 
Which  still,  at  any  stirring  of  the  heart, 
Came  up  to  float  across  the  English  phrase, 
As  lilies  (Bene  ...  or  che  eke),  because 
She  liked  my  father's  child  to  speak  his  tongue. 
I  learnt  the  collects  and  the  catechism, 
The  creeds,  —  from  Athanasius  back  to  Nice,  — 
The  articles,  the  tracts  against  the  times, 
(By  no  means  Buonaventure's  "  Prick  of  Love,") 


ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING.  255 

And  various  popular  synopses  of 

Inhuman  doctrines  never  taught  by  John, 

Because  she  liked  instructed  piety. 

I  learnt  my  complement  of  classic  French 

(Kept  pure  of  Balzac  and  neologism) 

And  German  also,  since  she  liked  a  range 

Of  liberal  education,  —  tongues,  not  books. 

I  learnt  a  little  algebra,  a  little 

Of  the  mathematics,  brushed  with  extreme  flounce 

The  circle  of  the  sciences,  because 

She  misliked  women  who  are  frivolous. 

I  learnt  the  royal  genealogies 

Of  Oviedo,  the  internal  laws 

Of  the  Burmese  Empire,  by  how  many  feet 

Mount  Chimborazo  outsoars  Teneriffe, 

What  navigable  river  joins  itself 

To  Lara,  and  what  census  of  the  year  five 

Was  taken  at  Kla^enfurt,  because  she  liked 

A  general  insight  into  useful  facts. 

I  learnt  much  music,  —  such  as  would  have  been 

As  quite  impossible  in  Johnson's  day 

As  still  it  might  be  wished,  —  fine  sleights  of  hand 

And  unimagined  fingering,  shuffling  off 

The  hearer's  soul  through  hurricanes  of  notes 

To  a  noisy  Tophet ;  and  I  drew  costumes 

From  French  engravings,  Nereids  neatly  draped, 

With  smirks  of  simmering  godship ;  I  washed  in 

Landscapes  from  Nature  (rather  say,  washed  out)  ; 

I  danced  the  polka  and  Cellarius  ; 

Spun  glass,  stuffed  birds,  and  modelled  flowers  in  wax,  — 

Because  she  liked  accomplishments  in  girls. 

I  read  a  score  of  books  on  womanhood, 

To  prove,  if  women  do  not  think  at  all, 

They  may  teach  thinking  (to  a  maiden  aunt, 

Or  else  the  author),  — books  that  boldly  assert 

Their  right  of  comprehending  husbands'  talk 

When  not  too  deep,  and  even  of  answering 

With  pretty  "  May  it  please  you,"  or  "  So  it  is  ;  " 

Their  rapid  insight  and  fine  aptitude, 

Particular  worth  and  general  missionariness, 

As  long  as  they  keep  quiet  by  the  fire, 

And  never  say  "  No  "  when  the  world  says  "  Ay," 

For  that  is  fatal ;  their  angelic  reach 

Of  virtue,  chiefly  used  to  sit  and  darn, 

And  fatten  household  sinners ;   their,  in  brief, 

Potential  faculty  in  every  thing 

Of  abdicating  power  in  it.     She  owned 

She  liked  a  woman  to  be  womanly ; 

And  English  women  —  she  thanked  God  and  sighed 

(Some  people  always  sigh  in  thanking  God)  — 

Were  models  to  the  universe.     And,  last, 

I  learnt  cross-stitch,  because  she  did  not  like 

To  see  me  wear  the  night  with  empty  hands, 


256  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Adoing  nothing.     So  my  shepherdess 

Was  something  after  alf,  (the  pastoral  saints 

Be  praised  fbr't !)  learning  love-lorn  with  pink  eyes 

To  match  her  shoes,  when  I  mistook  the  silks  ; 

Her  head  uncrushed  by  that  round  weight  of  hat 

So  strangely  similar  to  the  tortoise-shell 

Which  slew  the  tragic  poet. 

By  the  way, 

The  works  of  women  are  symbolical. 
We  sew,  sew,  prick  our  fingers,  dull  our  sight, 
Producing  what  ?     A  pair  of  slippers,  sir, 
To  put  on  when  you're  weary,  or  a  stool 
To  tumble  over  and  vex  you  ;  ("  Curse  that  stool ! ") 
Or  else,  at  best,  a  cushion,  where  you  lean 
And  sleep,  and  dream  of  something  we  are  not, 
But  would  be  for  your  sake.     Alas,  alas ! 
This  hurts  most,  —  this,  —  that,  after  all,  we  are  paid 
The  worth  of  our  work,  perhaps. 

In  looking  down 

Those  years  of  education  (to  return), 
I  wonder  if  Brinvilliers  suffered  more 
In  the  water  torture,  flood  succeeding  flood 
To  drench  the  incapable  throat  and  split  the  veins, 
Than  I  did.     Certain  of  your  feebler  souls 
Go  out  in  such  a  process  ;*  many  pine 
To  a  sick,  inodorous  light :  my  own  endured* 
I  had  relations  in  the  unseen/and  drew 
The  elemental  nutriment  and  heat 
From  Nature,  as  earth  feels  the  sun  at  nights, 
Or  as  a  babe  sucks  surely  in  the  dark : 
I  kept  the  life  thrust  on  me,  on  the  outside 
Of  the  inner  life  with  all  its  ample  room 
For  heart  and  lungs,  for  will  and  intellect, 
Inviolable  by  conventions.     God, 
I  thank  thee  for  that  grace  of  thine  ! 

At  first, 

I  felt  no  life  which  was  not  patience ;  did 
The  thing  she  bade  me,  without  heed  to  a  thing 
Beyond  it ;  sate  in  just  the  chair  she  placed, 
With  back  against  the  window  to  exclude 
The  sight  of  the  great  lime-tree  on  the  lawn, 
Which  seemed  to  have  come  on  purpose  from  the  woods 
To  bring  the  house  a  message ;  ay,  and  walked 
Demurely  in  her  carpeted  low  rooms 
As  if  I  should  not.  hearkening  my  own  steps, 
Misdoubt  I  was  alive.     I  read  her  books ; 
Was  civil  to  her  cousin,  Romney  Leigh ; 
Gave  ear  to  her  vicar,  tea  to  her  visitors, 
And  heard  them  whisper  when  I  changed  a  cup 
(I  blushed  for  joy  at  that),  "  The  Italian  child, 


ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING.  257 

For  all  her  blue  eyes  and  her  quiet  ways, 

Thrives  ill  in  England  :  she  is  paler  yet 

Than  when  we  came  the  last  time  :  she  will  die." 

"  Will  die."     My  cousin,  Romney  Leigh,  blushed  too, 

With  sudden  anger,  and,  approaching  me, 

Said  low  between  his  teeth,  "  You're  wicked  now  ! 

You  wish  to  die,  and  leave  the  world  a-dusk 

For  others,  with  your  naughty  light  blown  out  ?  " 

I  looked  into  his  face  defyingly. 

He  might  have  known,  that,  being  what  I  was, 

'Twas  natural  to  like  to  get  away 

As  far  as  dead  folk  can  ;  and  then,  indeed, 

Some  people  make  no  trouble  when  they  die. 

He  turned,  and  went  abruptly,  slammed  the  door, 

And  shut  his  dog  out. 

Romney,  Romney  Leigh: 
I  have  not  named  my  cousin  hitherto ; 
And  yet  I  used  him  as  a  sort  of  friend,  — 
My  elder  by  few  years,  but  cold  and  shy 
And  absent ;  tender  when  he  thought  of  it, 
Which  scarcely  was  imperative ;  grave  betimes, 
As  well  as  early  master  of  Leigh  Hall, 
Whereof  the  nightmare  sate  upon  his  youth 
Repressing  all  its  seasonable  delights, 
And  agonizing  with  a  ghastly  sense 
Of  universal  hideous  want  and  wrong 
To  incriminate  possession.     When  he  came 
From  college  to  the  country,  very  oft 
He  crossed  the  hill  on  visits  to  my  aunt, 
With  gifts  of  blue  grapes  from  the  hothouses ; 
A  book  in  one  hand,  —  mere  statistics  (if 
I  chanced  to  lift  the  cover),  count  of  all 
The  goats  whose  beards  grow  sprouting  down  towards  hell, 
Against  God's  separative  judgment-hour. 
And  she  —  she  almost  loved  him  ;  even  allowed 
That  sometimes  he  should  seem  to  sigh  my  way : 
It  made  him  easier  to  be  pitiful ; 
And  sighing  was  his  gift.     So,  undisturbed, 
At  whiles  she  let  him  shut  my  music  »p, 
And  push  my  needles  down,  and  lead  me  out 
To  see  in  that  south  angle  of  the  house 
The  figs  grow  black  as  if  by  a  Tuscan  rock, 
On  some  light  pretext.     She  would  turn  her  head 
At  other  moments,  go  to  fetch  a  thing, 
And  leave  me  breath  enough  to  speak  with  him, 
For  his  sake  :  it  was  simple. 

Sometimes,  too, 

He  would  have  saved  me  utterly,  it  seemed, 
He  stood  and  looked  so. 
17 


258  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Once  he  stood  so  near, 
He  dropped  a  sudden  hand  upon  mv  head 
Bent  down  on  woman's  work,  as  sol't  as  rain ; 
But  then  I  rose  and  shook  it  oft*  as  fire,  — 
The  stranger's  touch  that  took  my  father's  place, 
Yet  dared  seem  soft. 

I  used  him  for  a  friend 
Before  I  ever  knew  him  for  a  friend. 
'Twas  better,  'twas  worse  also,  afterward : 
We  came  so  close,  we  saw  our  differences 
Too  intimately.     Always  Romney  Leigh 
Was  looking  for  the  worms,  I  for*  the  gods. 
A  godlike  nature  his  :  the  gods  look  down 
Incurious  of  themselves ;  and  certainly 
'Tis  well  I  should  remember  how,  those  days, 
I  was  a  worm  too,  and  he  looked  on  me. 

A  little  by  his  act  perhaps,  yet  more 

By  something  in  me,  surely  not  my  will, 

I  did  not  die.     But  slowly*  as  one'in  swoon, 

To  whom  life  creeps  back  in  the  form  of  death, 

With  a  sense  of  separation,  a  blind  pain 

Of  blank  obstruction,  and  a  roar  i'  the  ears 

Of  visionary  chariots  which  retreat 

As  earth  grows  clearer,  —  slowly,  by  degrees, 

I  woke,  rose  up.     Where  was  I  ?     In  the  world  : 

For  uses,  therefore,  I  must  count  worth  while. 

I  had  a  little  chamber  in  the  house, 

As  green  as  any  privet-hedire  a  bird 

Might  choose  to  build  in,  though  the  nest  itself 

Could  show  but  dead  brown  sticks  and  straws.     The  walls 

Were  green,  the  carpet  was  pure  green,  the  straight 

Small  bed  was  curtained  greenly,  and  the  folds 

Hung  green  about  the  window,  which  let  in 

The  out-door  world  with  all  its  greenery. 

You  could  not  push  your  head  out,  and  escape 

A  dash  of  dawn-dew  from  the  honeysuckle, 

But  so  you  were  baptized  into  the  grace 

And  privilege  of  seeing.  .  .  . 

First  the  lime 

(I  had  enough  there  of  the  lime,  be  sure  : 
My  morning  dream  was  often  hummed  away 
By  the  bees  in  it)  ;  past  the  lime,  the  lawn, 
Which,  after  sweeping  broadly  round  the  house, 
Went  trickling  through  the  shrubberies  in  a  stream 
Of  tender  turf,  and  wore  and  lost  itself 
Among  the  acacias,  over  which  you  saw 
Tlie  irregular  line  of  elms  by  the  deep  lane 
Which  stopped  the  grounds  and  dammed  the  overflow 
Of  arbutus  and  laurel.     Out  of  si^ht 
The  lane  was ;  sunk  so  deep,  no  foreign  tramp, 


ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING.  259 

Nor  drover  of  wild  ponies  out  of  Wales, 

Could  guess  if  lady's  hall  or  tenant's  lodge 

Dispensed  such  odors,  though  his  stick,  well  crooked, 

Might  reach  the  lowest 'trail  of  blossoming  brier 

Which  dipped  upon  the  wall.     Behind  the  elms, 

And  through  their  tops,  you  saw  the  folded  hills 

Striped  up  and  down  with  hedges  (burly  oaks 

Projecting  from  the  line  to  show  themselves), 

Through  which  my  cousin  Romney's  chimneys  smoked 

As  still  as  when  a  silent  mouth  in  frost 

Breathes,  showing  where  the  woodlands  hid  Leigh  Hall ; 

While,  far  above,  a  jet  of  table-land, 

A  promontory  without  water,  stretched. 

You  could  not  catch  it  if  the  days  were  thick, 

Or  took,  it  for  a  cloud  ;  but,  otherwise, 

The  vigorous  sun  would  catch  it  up  at  eve, 

And  use  it  for  an  anvil  until  he  had  filled 

The  shelves  of  heaven  with  burning  thunderbolts, 

Protesting  against  night  and  darkness ;  then, 

When  all  his  setting  trouble  was  resolved 

To  a  trance  of  passive  glory,  you  might  see 

In  apparition  on  the  golden  sky 

(Alas !  my  Giotto's  background)  the  sheep  run 

Along  the  fine  clear  outline,  small  as  mice 

That  run  along  a  witch's  scarlet  thread. 

Not  a  grand  nature.     Not  my  chestnut-woods 
Of  Vallombrosa,  cleaving  by  the  spurs 
To  the  precipices.     Not  my  headlong  leaps 
Of  waters,  that  cry  out  for  joy  or  fear 
In  leaping  through  the  palpitating  pines, 
Like  a  white  soul  tossed  out  to  eternity 
With  thrills  of  time  upon  it.     Not,  indeed, 
My  multitudinous  mountains,  setting  in 
The  magic  circle,  with  the  mutual  touch 
Electric,  panting  from  their  full  deep  hearts 
Beneath  the  influent  heavens,  and  waiting  for 
Communion  and  commission.     Italy 
Is  one  thing ;  England  one. 

On  English  ground, 

You  understand  the  letter,  —  ere  the  Fall, 
How  Adam  lived  in  a  garden.     All  the  fields 
Are  tied  up  fast  with  hedges,  nosegay-like ; 
The  hills  are  crumpled  plains ;  the  plains,  parterres ; 
The  trees,  round,  woolly,  ready  to  be  clipped  : 
And,  if  you  seek  for  any  wilderness, 
You  find  at  best  a  park*     A  nature  tamed 
And  grown  domestic  like  a  barn-door  fowl, 
Which  does  not  awe  you  with  its  claws  and  beak, 
Nor  tempt  you  to  an  eyrie  too  high  up, 
But  which  in  cackling  sets  you  thinking  of 
Your  eggs  to-morrow  at  breakfast  in  the  pause 
Of  finer  meditation. 


260  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Rather  say, 

A  sweet  familiar  nature,  stealing  in 
As  a  dog  might,  or  child,  to  touch  your  hand, 
Or  pluck  your  gown,  and  humbly  mind  you  so 
Of  presence  and  affection,  excellent 
For  inner  uses,  from  the  things  without. 

I  could  not  be  unthankful,  —  I  who  was 

Entreated  thus  and  holpen.     In  the  room 

I  speak  of,  ere  the  house  was  well  awake, 

And  also  after  it  was  well  asleep, 

I  sat  alone,  and  drew  the  blessing  in 

Of  all  that  nature.     With  a  gradual  step, 

A  stir  among  the  leaves,  a  breath,  a  ray, 

It  came  in  softly,  while  the  angels  made 

A  place  for  it  beside  me.     The  moon  came, 

And  swept  my  chamber  clean  of  foolish  thoughts. 

The  sun  came,  saying,  "  Shall  I  lift  this  light 

Against  the  lime-tree,  and  you  will  not  look  ? 

I  make  the  birds  sing  :  listen  !     But,  for  you, 

God  never  hears  your  voice,  excepting  when 

You  lie  upon  the  bed  at  nights,  and  weep." 

Then  something  moved  me.     Then  I  wakened  up 

More  slowly  than  I  verily  write  now ; 

But  wholly,  at  last,  I  wakened,  opened  wide 

The  window  and  my  soul,  and  let  the  airs 

And  outdoor  sights  sweep  gradual  gospels  in, 

Regenerating  what  I  was.     O  Life  ! 

How  oft  we  throw  it  off,  and  think,  "  Enough, 

Enough  of  Life  in  so  much  !     Here's  a  cause 

For  rupture  ;  herein  we  must  break  with  Life, 

Or  be  ourselves  unworthy  ;  here  we  are  wronged, 

Maimed,  spoiled  for  aspiration  :  farewell  Life  !  " 

And  so,  as  froward  babes,  we  hide  our  eyes, 

And  think  all  ended.     Then  Life  calls  to  us 

In  some  transformed,  apocalyptic  voice 

Above  us,  or  below  us,  or  around  : 

Perhaps  we  name  it  Nature's  voice,  or  Love's, 

Tricking  ourselves  because  we  are  more  ashamed 

To  own  our  compensations  than  our  griefs : 

Still  Life's  voice ;  still  we  make  our  peace  with  Life. 

And  I,  so  young  then,  was  not  sullen.     Soon 

I  used  to  get  up  early,  just  to  sit 

And  watch  the  morning  quicken  in  the  gray, 

And  hear  the  silence  open  like  a  flower, 

Leaf  after  leaf,  and  stroke  with  listless  hand 

The  woodbine  through  the  window,  till  at  last 

I  came  to  do  it  with  a  sort  of  love. 

At  foolish  unaware  :  where-U  I  smiled,  — • 

A  melancholy  smile,  to  catch  myself 

Smiling  for  joy. 


ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING.  261 

Capacity  for  joy 

Admits  temptation.     It  seemed,  next,  worth  while 
To  dodge  the  sharp  sword  set  against  my  life ; 
To  slip  down  stairs  through  all  the  sleepy  house, 
As  mute  as  any  dream  there,  and  escape, 
As  a  soul  from  the  body,  out  of  doors, 
Glide  through  the  shrubberies,  drop  into  the  lane, 
And  wander  on  the  hills  an  hour  or  two, 
Then  back  again  before  the  house  should  stir. 
Or  else  I  sat  on  in  my  chamber  green, 
And  lived  my  life,  and  thought  my  thoughts,  and  prayed 
My  prayers  without  the  vicar ;  read  my  books, 
Without  considering  whether  they  were  fit 
To  do  me  good.     Mark,  there  I     We  get  no  good 
By  being  ungenerous,  even  to  a  book, 
And  calculating  profits ;  ...  so  much  help 
By  so  much  reading.     It  is  rather  when 
We  gloriously  forget  ourselves,  and  plunge 
Soul-forward,  headlong,  into  a  book's  profound, 
Impassioned  for  its  beauty,  and  salt  -of  truth,  — 
'Tis  then  we  get  the  right  good  from  a  book. 

I  read  much.     What  my  father  taught  before 

From  many  a  volume,  Love  re-emphasized 

Upon  the  selfsame  pages  :  Theophrast 

Grew  tender  with  the  memory  of  his  eyes ; 

And  ^Elian  made  mine  wet.     The  trick  of  Greek 

And  Latin  he  had  taught  me  as  he  would 

Have  taught  me  wrestling,  or  the  game  of  fives, 

If  such  he  had  known,  —  most  like  a  shipwrecked  man 

Who  heaps  his  single  platter  with  goats'  cheese 

And  scarlet  berries ;  or  like  any  man 

Who  loves  but  one,  and  so  gives  all  at  once, 

Because  he  has  it,  rather  than  because 

He  counts  it  worthy.     Thus  my  father  gave ; 

And  thus,  as  did  the  women  formerly 

By  young  Achilles  when  they  pinned  the  vail 

Across  the  boy's  audacious  front,  and  swept 

With  tuneful  laughs  the  silver-fretted  rocks, 

He  wrapt  his  little  daughter  in  his  large 

Man's  doublet,  careless  did  it  fit  or  no. 

But,  after  I  had  read  for  memory, 
I  read  for  hope.     The  path  my  father's  foot 
Had  trod  me  out,  which  suddenly  broke  off 
(What  time  he  dropped  the  wallet  of  the  flesh, 
And  passed),  alone  I  carried  on,  and  set 
My  child-heart  'gainst  the  thorny  underwood, 
To  reach  the  grassy  shelter  of  the  trees. 
Ah,  babe  i'  the  wood,  without  a  brother-babe  ! 
My  own  self-pity,  like  the  red-breast  bird, 
Flies  back  to  cover  all  that  past  with  leaves. 


262  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 


Sublimest  danger,  over  which  none  weeps 

When  any  young  wayfaring  soul  goes  forth 

Alone,  unconscious  of  the  perilpus  road, 

The  day-sun  dazzling  in  his  limpid  eye?, 

To  thrust  his  own  way,  he  an  alien,  through 

The  world  of  books  !  *  Ah,  you  !  —  you  think  it  fine, 

You  clap  hands,  —  "  A  lair  day  !  "  —  you  cheer  him  on, 

As  if  the  worst  could  happen  were  to  rest 

Too  long  beside  a  fountain.     Yet.  behold, 

Behold  !  the  world  of  books  is  still  the  world ; 

And  worldlings  in  it  are  less  merciful 

And  more  puissant.     For  the  wicked  there 

Are  winged  like  angels.     Every  knife  that  strikes 

Is  edged  from  elemental  fire  to  assail 

A  spiritual  life.     The  beautiful  seems  right 

By  force  of  beauty,  and  the  feeble  wrong 

Because  of  weakness.     Power  is  justified, 

Though  armed  against  St.  Michael.     Many  a  crown 

Covers  bald  foreheads.     In  the  book-world,  true, 

There's  no  lack,  neither,  of  God's  saints  and  kings, 

That  shake  the  ashes  of  the  grave  aside 

From  their  calm  locks,  and,  undiscomfited, 

Look  steadfast  truths  against  Time's  changing  mask. 

True,  many  a  prophet  teaches  in  the  roads ; 

True,  many  a  seer  pulls  down  the  flaming  heavens 

Upon  his  own  head  in  strong  martyrdom, 

In  order  to  light  men  a  moment's  space. 

But  stay  !  —  who  judges,  who  distinguishes, 

'Twixt  Saul  and  Nahash  justly,  at  first  sight, 

And  leaves  King  Saul  precisely  at  the  sin, 

To  serve  Kin-j;  David  V     Who  discerns  at  once 

The  sound  of  the  trumpets  when  the  trumpets  blow 

For  Alaric  as  well  as  Charlemagne '! 

Who  judges  wizards,  and  can  tell  true  seers 

From  conjurors  V     The  child  there?     Would  you  leave 

That  child  to  wander  in  a  battle-field, 

And  push  his  innocent  smile  against  the  guns? 

Or  even  in  a  catacomb,  his  torch 

Grown  ragged  in  the  fluttering  air.  and  all 

The  dark  a-mutter  round  him  ?     Not  a  child. 

I  read  books  bad  and  good,  —  some  bad  and  some  good 

At  once  (good  aims  not  always  make  good  books ; 

"Well-tempered  spades  turn  up  ill-smelling  soils 

In  digging  vineyards  even)  ;  books  that  prove 

God's  being  so  definitely,  that  man's  doubt 

Grows  self-defined  the  other  side  the  line, 

Made  atheist  by  suggestion  ;  moral  books, 

Exasperating  to  license  ;  genial  books, 

Discounting  from  the  human  dignity  ; 

And  merry  books,  which  set  you  weening  when 

The  sun  shines ;  ay,  and  melancholy  books, 


ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING.  263 

Which  make  you  laugh  that  any  one  should  weep 
In  this  disjointed  life  for  one  wrong  more. 

The  world  of  books  is  still  the  world  I  write  $ 
And  both  worlds  have  God's  providence,  thank  God  ! 
To  keep  and  hearten.     With  some  struggle,  indeed, 
Among  the  breakers,  some  hard  swimming  through 
The  deeps,  I  lost  breath  in  rny  soul  sometimes, 
And  cried,  "  God  save  me,  if  there's  any  God  ! " 
But,  even  so,  God  saved  me ;  and,  being  dashed 
From  error  on  to  error,  every  turn 
Still  brought  me  nearer  to  the  central  truth. 

I  thought  so.     All  this  anguish  in  the  thick 
Of  men's  opinions,  —  press  and  counterpress, 
Now  up,  now  down,  now  underfoot,  and  now- 
Emergent,  —  all  the  best  of  it,  perhaps, 
But  throws  you  back  upon  a  noble  trust 
And  use  of  your  own  instinct ;  merely  proves 
Pure  reason  stronger  than  bare  inference 
At  strongest.     Try  it ;  fix  against  heaven's  wall 
Your  scaling  ladders  of  school  logic ;  mount 
Step  by  step.     Sight  goes  faster :  that  still  ray 
Which  strikes  out  from  you,  how  you  can  not  tell, 
And  why  you  know  not,  (did  you  eliminate, 
That  such  as  you,  indeed,  should  analyze  ?) 
Goes  straight  and  fast  as  light,  and  high  as  God. 

The  cygnet  finds  the  water ;  but  the  man 
Is  born  in  ignorance  of  his  element, 
And  feels  out  blind  at  first,  disorganized 
By  sin  i'  the  blood,  his  spirit-insight  dulled 
And  crossed  by  his  sensations.     Presently 
He  feels  it  quicken  in  the  dark  sometimes ; 
When  mark,  be  reverent,  be  obedient ; 
For  such  dumb  motions  of  imperfect  life 
Are  oracles  of  vital  Deity, 
Attesting  the  hereafter.     Let  who  says, 
"  The  soul's  a  clean  white  paper,''  rather  say, 
A  palimpsest,  a  prophet's  holograph 
Defiled,  erased,  and  covered  by  a  monk's,  — 
The  apocalypse,  by  a  Longus !  poring  on 
Which  obscene  text,  we  may  discern  perhaps 
Some  fair,  fine  trace  of  what  was  written  once ; 
Some  upstroke  of  an  alpha  and  omega 
Expressing  the  old  Scripture. 

Books,  books,  books ! 
I  had  found  the  secret  of  a  garret-room 
Piled  high  with  cases  in  my  father's  name ; 
Piled  high,  packed  large,  where,  creeping  in  and  out 
Among  the  giant  fossils  of  my  past, 


264  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Like  some  small,  nimble  mouse  between  the  ribs 
Of  a  mastodon,  I  nibbled  here  and  there 
At  this  or  that  box,  pulling  through  the  gap, 
In  heats  of  terror,  haste,  victorious  joy, 
The  first  book  first.     And  how  I  felt  it  beat 
Under  my  pillow  in  the  morning's  dark, 
An  hour  before  the  sun  would  let  me  read ! 
My  books ! 

At  last,  because  the  time  was  ripe, 
I  chanced  upon  the  poets. 

As  the  earth 

Plunges  in  fury  when  the  internal  fires 
Have  reached  and  pricked  her  heart,  and  throwing  flat 
The  marts  and  temples,  the  triumphal  gates, 
And  towers  of  observation,  clears  herself 
To  elemental  freedom ;  thus  my  soul, 
At  Poetry's  divine  first  finger-touch, 
Let  go  conventions,  and  sprang  up  surprised, 
Convicted  of  the  great  eternities 
Before  two  worlds. 


OTHER   MODERN   ENGLISH   POETS   AND 
DRAMATISTS. 

ROBERT  SOUTHKY.  — 1774-1843.  Poet-laureate  from  1813  to  1843.  A  writer 
of  great  industry.  His  prose  is  superior  to  his  poetry,  which  is  of  the  lake 
school  mainly,  and  not  of  the  highest  order. 

PRINCIPAL  PRODUCTIONS. 

"Madoc;"  "The  Curse  of  Kehama;"  "  Thalaba,  the  Destroyer;"  "Joan  of 
Arc;"  "All  for  Love;"  "The  Pilgrim  of  Compostella;"  "Life  of  Nelson;"  "A 
History  of  Brazil;"  "Lives  of  Wesley,  Chatterton,  White,  and  Cowper;  "  "Lives 
of  the'British  Admirals;"  "Colloquies  on  Society." 

SHERIDAN  KNOWLES.  — 1784-1862.  One  of  the  most  successful  of  modern 
dramatists.  His  best  known  plays  are  "Gains  Gracchus,"  "Virginius, " 
"William  Tell,"  "The  Beggar  of  Bethnal  Green,"  "The  Hunchback,"  "The 
Wife,  a  Tale  of  Mantua,"  and  ''Love."  Besides  these,  he  wrote  several  other  pop- 
ular plays  and  other  works. 

WILLIAM  E.  AYTOUN.  — 1813,  Edinburgh.  "Lavs  of  the  Scottish  Cavaliers;" 
"  Bothwell; "  "  Firmilian; "  and.  with  Theodore  Martin,  "  Ballads  by  Bon  Gaultier." 

PHILIP  JAMES  BAILEY.  — 1816.  Author  of  "Festus,"  a  work  of  remarkable 
power,  "The  Angel  World,"  "The  Mystic,"  "The  Age,  a  Colloquial  Satire." 

CAROLINE  ANNE  SOUTHEY.  —  1787-1854.  Authoress  of  the  beautiful  tales,  "  The 
Young  Gray  Head,"  "The  Murder  Glen,"  "Walter  and  William,"  and  "  The  Even- 
ing Walk;'"  also  "Ellen  Fitzarthur,"  "Birthday  and  other  Poems,"  "Solitary 
Hours,"  and  other  pieces  of  prose  and  poetry  of  much  merit. 

MARTIN  FARQUHAR  TUPPER.  — 1810.  "  Proverbial  Philosophy; "  "  An  Author's 
Mind; "  "  The  Crock  of  Gold." 


OTHER   MODERN   ENGLISH    POETS,    ETC.  265 

ELIZA  COOK.  —  1817.  "The  Old  Arm  -Chair,"  and  many  other  popular 
pieces. 

Miss  JEAN  INGELOW.—  "  The  High  Tide." 
WILLIAM  THOM.  —  1789-1848.     "  Rhymes  and  Recollections." 
BKYAN  WALTEU  PROCTER  (better  known  as  "BARKY   CORNWALL").  —  1790. 
"  Marcian  Colonna;  "  "  Flood  of  Thessaly  ;  "   "  Dramatic  Scei.es;  "  "  Mirandola;  " 
"The  Sea;"  -  The  Sequestration  of  a  Bereaved  Lover;  "  "A  Pauper's  Funeral;" 
"  A  Petition  to  Time;  "   "  A.  Prayer  in  Sickness;  "  "  The  Stormy  Petrel." 

HENRY  HART  MILMAN.  —  1791-1868.  "  Fazio;  "  "  Samor;  "  "  The  Fall  of  Jeru- 
salem; "  "  The  Martyr  of  Antioch;  "  "  History  of  Latin  Christianity." 

JOHN  CLARE.  —  1793.     "  Poems  of  Rural  Life;  "  '•  The  Village  Minstrel." 

HARTLEY  COLERIDGE.  —  1796-1849.  "Lives  of  Northern  Worthies;"  "The 
First  Sound  to  the  Human  Ear;  "  "  Night;  "  "A  Vision;  "  "  Sunday;  "  "  Prayer." 

DERWENT  COLERIDGE.  —  1800.     "Memoir  of  Hartley  Coleridge." 

SARA  COLERIDGE.  —  1803-1852.     "  Phautasmion." 

THOMAS  HAYNES  BAYLEY.  —  1797-1839.  "The  Soldier's  Tear;"  "I'd  be  a 
Butterfly  ;  "  '•  The  First  Gray  Hair  ;  "  "  I  Never  was  a  Favorite;  "  u  Why  don't  the 
Men  propose  ?  " 

WILLIAM  MOTHERWELL.  —  1797-1835.  "Scottish  Minstrelsy;"  "Jeanie  Mor- 
rison." 

ALARIC  ALEXANDER  WATTS.  —  1799.  "Poetical  Sketches;"  "Lyrics  of  the 
Heart;"  "Death  of  the  Firstborn;"  "To  a  Child  blowing  Bubbles;"  "My  Own 
Fireside;"  "The  Gray  Hair." 

JOHN  EDMUND  READE.  —  "  Italy  ;"  "Revelations  of  Life;"  "Cain  and 
Catiline." 

WINTHROP  MACKWORTH  PRAED.  —  1802-1839.  "The  Red  Fisherman;" 
"  Quince." 

RICHARD  HENRY  HORNE.  —  1803.    "Orion;"  "Cosmo  de  Medici;"  "Death  of 

Marlowe." 

CHARLES  SWAIN.  —  1803.  "The  Mind;"  "English  Melodies;"  "Letters  of 
Laura  D'Auverne." 

THOMAS  KIBBLE  HERVEY.  —  1804-1859.     Editor  of  "The  Athenaeum;"  "  Aus- 

tralia; ""  Modern  Sculpture;"   "  England's  Helicon." 

THOMAS  RAGG.  —  1808.     "  The  Deity  :  "  "  Martyr  of  Verulum  ;  "  "  Heber." 
RICHARD   MONCKTON    MILNES.  —  1809.     "Poems  of    Many  Years;"    "Palm- 

Leaves;"   "Life  of   Keats;"    "Youth    and    Manhood;"  "Labor;"   "Rich  and 

Poor." 

CHARLES  MACKAY.  —  1812.  "Voices  from  the  Crowd;"  "Town  Lvrics;" 
".Egena;"  "The  Salamandrine;  "  "The  Watcher  on  the  Tower;"  "The  Good 
lime  Coming;  "  "  The  Three  Preachers;  "  "  What  might  be  Done." 

ROBERT  NICOLL.  —  1814-1837.     "  Thoughts  of  Heaven  ;  "  '•  Death." 

FRANCES  BROWN.  —  1816.  "The  Star  of  Atteghei;"  "  Visioi  of  Schwartz;" 
"  Lrics." 


ARNOLD'  ~  1822'       "  The    Strayed     Reveler;"    "  Empedocles    on 
HousT"  NTRY  PATMORE-  ~  1823'   "  Tamerton  Church-Tower;  "  "  The  Angel  in  the 

GEORGE  MACDONALD.  —  1826.     "  Within  and  Without  ;  "  "  Phantastes." 
GERALD  MASSEY.  —  1828.     "  Babe  Christabel  ;  "  "  Craigcrook  Castle." 

WILLIAM  BENNETT 

DENIS  FLORENCE  M'CARTHY. 


WILLIAM  ALLINGHAM. 
ISA  CRAIG. 
BESSIE  PARKES. 
MARY  HUME. 
ADELAIDE  PROCTER. 


All  of  whom  have  written  in  a 
style  more  or  less  worthy  of 
the  pupil's  attention. 


266  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


DRAMATISTS. 

Sir  THOMAS  NOON  TALFOURD. —1795-1854.  "Ion;"  "The  Athenian  Cap- 
tive;" "Gieucoe,  or  the  Fate  of  the  Macdonalds ; "  "The  Castilian ; "  "  Life  of 
Charles  Lainb." 

HENRY  TAYLOR.  —  "  Philip  Van  Artevelde; "  "  Edwin  the  Fair;  "  "  The  Eve  of 
the  Conquest;"  ".Notes  from  Life,  and  Notes  from  Books." 

THOMAS  LOVELL  BEDDOES.  — 1803 -1849.     "The  Bride's  Tragedy." 
RICHARD  LALOR  SHEIL.  —  Died  1851.     "Evadne;  "  "  The  Apostate." 
GILBERT  ABBOTT  A  BECKETT.  — 1810-1856.     Many  plays;  also  "Comic  Black- 
stone;  "  "  Comic  Histories  of  England  and  Rome." 

TOM  TAYLOR.  —  1817.     Many  comedies  and  farces;  "  Contributions  to  Punch;" 

"  Memorials  of  Haydon." 

WESTLAXD  MARSTON.  —  1825.    "  Heart  of  the  World ; "  "  Patrician's  Daughter." 

ROBERT  B.  BROUGH.  — 1828.    "  What  to  Eat,  Drink,  and  Avoid;  "  "  Medea." 

SHIRLEY  BROOKS.  —  "  Our  Governess ;"  "  The  Creole." 

WILKIE  COLLINS.  —  "  The  Frozen  Deep." 

MARK  LEMON.  —  Late  editor  of  "  Punch."    Author  of  innumerable  farces,  &c. 

HEXRY  MAYHEW.—  "The  Wandering  Minstrel." 


JOHN   LOTHROP   MOTLEY. 

BORN  1814,  DORCHESTER,  MASS. 

This  distinguished  historian,  author  of  "  The  Rise  of  the  Dutch  Republic,"  and 
"  The  United  Netherlands,"  is  now  (1870)  minister  at  the  court  of  St.  James. 


WILLIAM   OF    ORANGE. 

THE  life  and  labors  of  Orange  had  established  the  emancipated 
commonwealth  upon  a  secure  foundation ;  but  his  death  rendered 
the  union  of  all  the  Netherlands  into  one  republic  hopeless. 

The  efforts  of  the  malcontent  nobles,  the  religious  discord,  the 
consummate  ability  (both  political  and  military)  of  Parma,  —  all 
combined  with  the  lamentable  loss  of  William  the  Silent  to  sepa- 
rate for  ever  the  southern  and  Catholic  provinces  from  the  north- 
ern confederacy.  So  long  as  the  prince  remained  alive,  he  was 
the  father  of  the  whole  country ;  the  Netherlands,  saving  only  the 
two  Walloon  provinces,  constituting  a  whole. 

Notwithstanding  the  spirit  of  faction  and  the  blight  of  the  long 
civil  war,  there  was  at  least  one  country,  or  the  hope  of  a  country,  — 
one  strong  heart,  one  guiding  head, — for  the  patriotic  party 
throughout  the  land.  Philip  and  Granvelle  were  right  in  their  es- 
timate of  the  advantage  to  be  derived  from  the  prince's  death ;  in 


JOHN  LOTHROP  MOTLEY.  267 

believing  that  an  assassin's  hand  could  achieve  more  than  all  the 
wiles  which  Spanish  or  Italian  statesmanship  could  teach,  or  all 
the  armies  which  Spain  or  Italy  could  muster.  The  pistol  of  the 
insignificant  Gerard  destroyed  the  possibility  of  a  united  Nether- 
land  State ;  while,  during  the  life  of  William,  there  was  union  in 
the  policy,  unity  in  the  history,  of  the  country. 

In  'the  following  year,  Antwerp,  hitherto  the  center  around 
which  all  the  national  interests  and  historical  events  group  them- 
selves, fell  before  the  scientific  efforts  of  Parma.  The  city  which 
had  so  long  been  the  freest  as  well  as  the  most  opulent  capital  in 
Europe  sank  for  ever  to  the  position  of  a  provincial  town.  With 
its  fall,  combined  with  other  circumstances  which  it  is  not  neces- 
sary to  narrate  in  anticipation,  the  final  separation  of  the  Nether- 
lands was  completed.  On  the  other  hand,  at  the  death  of  Orange, 
whose  formal  inauguration  as  sovereign  count  had  not  yet  taken 
place,  the  States  of  Holland  and  Zealand  re-assumed  the  sover- 
eignty. T.he  commonwealth  which  William  had  liberated  for 
ever  from  Spanish  tyranny  continued  to  exist  as  a  great  and  flour- 
ishing republic  during  more  than  two  centuries,  under  the  succes- 
sive stadtholderates  of  his  sons  and  descendants. 

His  life  gave  existence  to  an  independent  country ;  his  death 
defined  its  limits.  Had  he  lived  twenty  years  longer,  it  is  proba- 
ble that  the  seven  provinces  would  have  been  seventeen,  and  that 
the  Spanish  title  would  have  been  for  ever  extinguished  both  in 
Nether  Germany  and  Celtic  Gaul.  Although  there  was  to  be  the 
length  of  two  human  generations  more  of  warfare  ere  Spain  ac- 
knowledged the  new  government,  yet,  before  the  termination  of  that 
period,  the  United  States  had  become  the  first  naval  power,  and  one 
of  the  most  considerable  commonwealths,  in  the  world ;  while  the 
civil  and  religious  liberty,  the  political  independence,  of  the  land, 
together  with  the  total  expulsion  of  the  ancient  foreign  tyranny 
from  the  soil,  had  been  achieved  ere  the  eyes  of  William  were  closed. 

The  republic  existed,  in  fact,  from  the  moment  of  the  abju- 
ration, in  1581. 

The  most  important  features  of  the  polity  which  thus  assumed 
a  prominent  organization  have  been  already  indicated.  There 
was  no  revolution,  no  radical  change.  The  ancient  rugged  tree  of 
Netherland  liberty,  —  with  its  moss-grown  trunk,  gnarled  branches, 
and  deep-reaching  roots, — which  had  been  slowly  growing  for 
ages,  was  still  full  of  sap,  and  was  to  deposit  for  centuries  longer 
its  annual  rings  of  consolidated  and  concentric  strength.  Though 
lopped  of  some  luxuriant  boughs,  it  was  sound  at  the  core,  and 
destined  for  a  still  larger  life  than  even  in  the  healthiest  moments 
of  its  mediaeval  existence. 

The  history  of  the  rise  of  the  Netherland  Republic  has  been 
at  the  same  time  the  biography  of  William  the  Silent.  This, 


268  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

while  it  gives  unity  to  the  narrative,  renders  an  elaborate  descrip- 
tion of  his  character  superfluous.  That  life  was  a  noble  Chris- 
tian epic,  inspired  with  one  great  >purpose  from  its  commence- 
ment to  its  close,  —  the  stream  flowing  ever  from  one  fountain  with 
expanding  fullness,  but  retaining  all  its  original  purity.  A  few 
general  observations  are  all  which  are  necessary  by  way  of  con- 
clusion. 

In  person,  Orange  was  above  the  middle  hight,  perfectly  well 
made  and  sinewy,  but  rather  spare  than  stout.  His  eyes,  hair, 
beard,  and  complexion  were  brown.  His  head  was  small,  sym- 
metrically shaped,  combining  the  alertness  and  compactness  char- 
acteristic of  the  soldier  with  the  capacious  brow  furrowed  prema- 
turely with  the  horizontal  lines'  of  thought  denoting  the  states- 
man and  the  sage.  His  physical  appearance  was,  therefore,  in 
harmony  with  his  organization,  which  was  of  antique  model.  Of 
his  moral  qualities,  the  most  prominent  was  his  piety.  He  was, 
more  than  any  thing  else,  a  religious  man.  From  his  trust  in  God 
he  ever  derived  support  and  consolation  in  the  darkest  hours.  Im- 
plicitly relying  upon  Almighty  Wisdom  and  Goodness,  he  looked 
danger  in  the  face  with  a  constant  smile,  and  endured  incessant 
labors  and  trials  with  a  serenity  which  seemed  more  than  human. 
While,  however,  his  soul  was  full  of  piety,  it  was  tolerant  of  error. 
Sincerely  and  deliberately  himself  a  convert  to  the  Reformed 
Church,  lie  was  ready  to  extend  freedom  of  worship  to  Catholics 
on  one  hand,  and  to  Anabaptists  on  the  other ;  for  no  man  ever 
felt  more  keenly  than  he  that  the  reformer  who  becomes  in  his 
turn  a  bigot  is  doubly  odious.  His  firmness  was  allied  to  his 
piety.  His  constancy  in  bearing  the  whole  weight  of  a  struggle  as 
unequal  as  men  have  ever  undertaken  was  the  theme  of  admira- 
tion even  to  his  enemies.  The  rock  in  the  ocean,  "  tranquil  amid 
raging  billows,"  was  the  favorite  emblem  by  which  his  friends  ex- 
pressed their  sense  of  his  firmness.  From  the  time  when,  as  a 
hostage  in  France,  he  first  discovered  the  plan  of  Philip  to  plant 
the  Inquisition  in  the  Netherlands,  up  to  the  last  moment  of  his 
life,  he  never  faltered  in  his  determination  to  resist  that  iniqui- 
tous scheme.  This  resistance  was  the  labor  of  his  life.  To 
exclude  the  Inquisition,  to  maintain  the  ancient  liberties  of  his 
country,  was  the  task  which  he  appointed  to  himself  when  a  youth 
of  three  and  twenty. 

Never  speaking  a  word  concerning  a  heavenly  mission,  never 
deluding  himself  or  others  with  the  usual  phraseology  of  enthu- 
siasts, he  accomplished  the  task  through  danger,  amid  toils,  and 
with  sacrifices  such  as  few  men  have  ever  been  able  to  make  on 
their  country's  altar ;  for  the  disinterested  benevolence  of  the 
man  was  as  prominent  as  his  fortitude. 

A  prince  of  high  rank  and  with  royal  revenues,  he  stripped 


JOHN  LOTIIROP  MOTLEY.  269 

himself  of  station,  wealth,  almost,  at  times,  of  the  common  neces- 
saries of  life,  and  became,  in  his  country's  cause,  nearly  a  beggar 
as  well  as  an  outlaw.  Nor  was  he  forced  into  his  career  by  an  ac- 
cidental impulse  from  which  there  was  no  recovery.  Retreat  was 
ever  open  to  him.  Not  only  pardon,  but  advancement,  was  urged 
upon  him  again  and  again.  Officially  and  privately,  directly  and 
circuitously,  his  confiscated  estates,  together  with  indefinite  and 
boundless  favors  in  addition,  were  offered  to  him  on  every  great 
occasion.  On  the  arrival  of  Don  John,  at  the  Breda  negotiations, 
at  the  Cologne  conferences,  we  have  seen  how  calmly  these  offers 
were  waived  aside,  as  if  their  rejection  was  so  simple,  that  it  hard- 
ly required  many  words  for  its  signification ;  yet  he  had  mortgaged 
his  estates  so  deeply,  that  his  heirs  hesitated  at  accepting  their 
inheritance,  for  fear  it  should  involve  them  in  debt.  Ten  years 
after  his  death,  the  account  between  his  executors  and  his  brother 
John  amounted  to  one  million  four  hundred  thousand  florins  due 
to  the  count,  secured  by  various  pledges  of  real  and  personal  prop- 
erty ;  and  it  was  finally  settled  upon  this  basis.  He  was,  besides, 
largely  indebted  to  every  one  of  his  powerful  relatives  :  so  that  the 
payment  of  the  encumbrances  upon  his  estate  very  nearly  justified 
the  fears  of  his  children.  While  on  the  one  hand,  therefore,  he 
poured  out  these  enormous  sums  like  water,  and  firmly  refused  a 
hearing  to  the  tempting  offers  of  the  royal  government,  upon  the 
other  hand  he  proved  the  disinterested  nature  of  his  services  by 
declining,  year  after  year,  the  sovereignty  over  the  provinces,  and 
by  only  accepting  in  the  last  days  of  his  life,  when  refusal  had 
become  almost  impossible,  the  limited  constitutional  supremacy 
over  that  portion  of  them  which  now  makes  the  realm  of  his  de- 
scendants. He  lived  and  died,  not  for  himself,  but  for  his  country. 
"  God  pity  this  poor  people  ! "  were  his  dying  words. 

His  intellectual  faculties  were  various,  and  of  the  highest  order. 
He  had  the  exact,  practical,  and  combining  qualities  which  make 
the  great  commander ;  and  his  friends  claimed,  that,  in  military 
genius,  he  was  second  to  no  captain  in  Europe.  This  was,  no 
doubt,  an  exaggeration  of  partial  attachment;  but  it  is  certain 
that  the  Emperor  Charles  had  an  exalted  opinion  of  his  capacity 
for  the  field.  His  fortification  of  Philippeville  and  Charlemont, 
in  the  face  of  the  enemy;  his  passage  of  the  Meuse  in  Alva's 
sight ;  his  unfortunate  but  well-ordered  campaign  against  that 
general ;  his  sublime  plan  of  relief,  projected  and  successfully 
directed  at  last  from  his  sick-bed,  for  the  besieged  city  of  Leyden, 
—  will  always  remain  monuments  of  his  practical  military  skill. 

Of  the  soldier's  great  virtues,  —  constancy  in  disaster,  devotion 
to  duty,  hopefulness  in  defeat,  —  no  man  ever  possessed  a  larger 
share.  He  arrived,  through  a  series  of  reverses,  at  a  perfect  vic- 
tory. He  planted  a  free  commonwealth  under  the  very  battery 


270  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

of  the  Inquisition,  in  defiance  of  the  most  powerful  empire  exist- 
ing. He  was  therefore  a  conqueror  in  the  loftiest  sense ;  for  he 
conquered  liberty  and  a  national  existence  for  a  whole  people. 
The  contest  was  long,  and  he  fell  in  the  struggle ;  but  the  victory 
was  to  the  dead  hero,  not  to  the  living  monarch.  It  is  to  he 
remembered,  too,  that  he  always  wrought  with  inferior  instru- 
ments. His  troops  were  usually  mercenaries,  who  were  but  too 
apt  to  mutiny  upon  the  eve  of  battle ;  while  he  was  opposed  by 
the  most  formidable  veterans  of  Europe,  commanded  successivelv 
by  the  first  captains  of  the  age.  That  with  no  lieutenant  of  emi- 
nent valor  or  experience  save  only  his  brother  Louis,  and  with 
none  at  all  after  that  chieftain's  death,  William  of  Orange  should 
succeed  in  baffling  the  efforts  of  Alva,  Requesens,  Don  John  of 
Austria,  and  Alexander  Farnese,  —  men  whose  names  are  among 
the  most  brilliant  in  the  military  annals  of  the  world,  —  is  in 
itself  sufficient  evidence  of  his  warlike  ability.  At  the  period  of 
his  death,  he  had  reduced  the  number  of  obedient  provinces  to 
two;  only  Artois  and  Hainault  acknowledging  Philip,  while  the 
other  fifteen  \rere  in  open  revolt,  the  greater  part  having  sol- 
emnly forsworn  their  sovereign. 

The  supremacy  of  his  political  genius  was  entirely  beyond  ques- 
tion. He  was  the  first  statesman  pf  the  age.  The  quickness  of 
his  perception  was  only  equaled  by  the  caution  which  enabled 
him  to  mature  the  results  of  his  observations.  His  knowledge  of 
human  nature  was  profound.  He  governed  the  passions  and  sen- 
timents of  a  great  nation  as  if  they  had  been  but  the  keys  and 
chords  of  one  vast  instrument;  and  his  hand  rarely  failed  to  evoke 
harmony  even  out  of  the  wildest  storms.  The  turbulent  city  of 
Ghent,  which  could  obey  no  other  master,  which  even  the  haughty 
emperor  could  only  crush  without  controlling,  was  ever  responsive 
to  the  master-hand  of  Orange.  His  presence  scared  away  Imbize 
and  his  bat-like  crew,  confounded  the  schemes  of  John  Casimir, 
frustrated  the  wiles  of  Prince  Chimay;  and,  while  he  lived,  Ghent 
was  what  it  ought  always  to  have  remained,  —  the  bulwark,  as  it 
had  been  the  cradle,  of  popular  liberty.  After  his  death,  it  became 
its  tomb.  Ghent,  saved  thrice  by  the  policy,  the  eloquence,  the 
self-sacrifices,  of  Orange,  fell,  within  three  months  of  his  murder, 
into  the  hands  of  Parma.  The  loss  of  this  most  important  city, 
followed  in  the  next  year  by  the  downfall  of  Antwerp,  sealed  the 
fate  of  the  Southern  Netherlands.  Had  the  Prince  lived,  how  dif- 
ferent might  have  been  the  country's  fate  !  If  seven  provinces  could 
dilate  in  so  brief  a  space  into  the  powerful  commonwealth  which 
the  republic  soon  became,  what  might  not  have  been  achieved 
by  the  united  seventeen?  —  a  confederacy  which  would  have 
united  the  adamantine  vigor  of  the  Batavian  and  Frisian  races  with 
the  subtler,  more  delicate,  and  more  graceful  national  elements,  in 


JOHN   LOTHROP  MOTLEY.  271 

which  the  genius  of  the  Frank,  the  Roman,  and  the  Romanized 
Celt,  were  so  intimately  blended.  As  long  as  the  father  of  the 
country  lived,  such  a  union  was  possible.  His  power  of  managing 
men  was  so  unquestionable,  that  there  was  always  a  hope,  even  iii 
the  darkest  hour;  for  men  felt  implicit  reliance,  as  well  on  his 
intellectual  resources  as  on  his  integrity.  This  power  of  dealing 
with  his  fellow-men  he  manifested  in  the  various  ways  in  which  it 
has  been  usually  exhibited  by  statesmen.  He  possessed  a  ready 
eloquence ;  sometimes  impassioned,  oftener  argumentative,  always 
rational.  His  influence  over  his  audience  was  unexampled  in  the 
annals  of  that  country  or  age ;  yet  he  never  condescended  to  flat- 
ter the  people.  He  never  followed  the  nation,  but  always  led  her 
in  the  path  of  duty  and  of  honor ;  and  was  much  more  prone  to 
rebuke  the  vices  than  to  pander  to  the  passions  of  his  hearers. 
He  never  failed  to  administer  ample  chastisement  to  parsimony, 
to  jealousy,  to  insubordination,  to  intolerance,  to  infidelity,  wher- 
ever it  was  due;  nor  feared  to  confront  the  states  or  the  people  in 
their  most  angry  hours,  and  to  tell  them  the  truth  to  their  faces. 
This  commanding  position  he  alone  could  stand  upon:  for  his 
countrymen  knew  the  generosity  which  had  sacrificed  his  all  for 
them ;  the  self-denial  which  had  eluded  rather  than  sought  politi- 
cal advancement,  whether  from  king  or  people ;  and  the  untiring 
devotion  which  had  consecrated  a  whole  life  to  toil  and  danger  in 
the  cause  of  their  emancipation.  While,  therefore,  he  was  ever 
ready  to  rebuke,  and  always  too  honest  to  flatter,  he  at  the  same 
time  possessed  the  eloquence  which  could  convince  or  persuade. 
He  knew  how  to  reach  both  the  mind  and  the  heart  of  his  hear- 
ers. His  orations,  whether  extemporaneous  or  prepared;  his 
written  messages  to  the  states-general,  to  the  provincial  authori- 
ties, to  the  municipal  bodies ;  his  private  correspondence  with 
men  of  all  ranks,  from  emperors  and  kings  down  to  secretaries, 
and  even  children,  —  all  show  an  easy  flow  of  language,  a  fullness 
of  thought,  a  power  of  expression  rare  in  that  age,  a  fund  of  histor- 
ical allusion,  a  considerable  power  of  imagination,  a  warmth  of 
sentiment,  a  breadth  of  view,  a  directness  of  purpose ;  a  range  of 
qualities,  in  short,  which  would  in  themselves  have  stamped  him 
as  one  of  the  master-minds  of  his  century,  had  there  been  no 
other  monument  to  his  memory  than  the  remains  of  his  spoken 
or  written  eloquence.  The  bulk  of  his  performances  in  this  de- 
partment was  prodigious.  Not  even  Philip  was  more  industrious 
in  the  cabinet.  Not  even  Granvelle  held  a  more  facile  pen.  He 
wrote  and  spoke  equally  well  in  French,  German,  or  Flemish ; 
and  he  possessed,  besides,  Spanish,  Italian,  Latin.  The  weight 
of  his  correspondence  alone  would  have  almost  sufficed  for  the 
common  industry  of  a  lifetime ;  and,  although  many  volumes  of 
his  speeches  and  letters  have  been  published,  there  remain  in  the 


272  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

various  archives  of  the  Netherlands  and  Germany  many  docu- 
ments from  his  hand  which  will  probably  never  see  the  light.  If 
the  capacity  for  uiireinitted  intellectual  labor  in  an  honorable 
cause  be  the  measure  of  human  greatness,  few  minds  could  be 
compared  to  the  "large  composition"  of  this  man.  The  efforts 
made  to  destroy  the  Netherlands  by  the  most  laborious  and  pains- 
taking of  tyrants  were  counteracted  by  the  industry  of  the  most 
indefatigable  of  patriots. 

Thus  his  eloquence,  oral  or  written,  gave  him  almost  boundless 
power  over  his  countrymen.  He  possessed,  also,  a  rare  perception 
of  human  character,  together  with  an  iron  memory,  which  never 
lost  a  face,  a  place,  or  an  event,  once  seen  or  known.  He  read 
the  minds,  even  the  faces,  of  men,  like  printed  books.  No  man 
could  overreach  him,  excepting  only  those  to  whom  he  gave  his 
heart.  He  might  be  mistaken  where  he  had  confided,  never 
where  he  had  been  distrustful  or  indifferent.  He  was  deceived 
by  Renneberg,  by  his  brother-in-law  Van  den  Berg,  by  the  Duke 
of  Anjou.  Had  it  been  possible  for  his  brother  Louis  or  his 
brother  John  to  have  proved  false,  he  might  have  been  deceived 
by  them.  He  was  never  outwitted  by  Philip  or  Graiivelle  or 
Don  John  or  Alexander  of  Parma.  Anna  of  Saxony  was  false  to 
him,  and  entered  into  correspondence  with  the  royal  governors 
and  with  the  King  of  Spain :  Charlotte  of  Bourbon,  or  Louisa  de 
Coligny,  might  have  done  the  same,  had  it  been  possible  for  their 
nature:,  ilso  to  descend  to  such  depths  of  guile. 

As  for  the  Aerschots,  the  Havre's,  the  Chimays,  he  was  never 
influenced  either  by  their  blandishments  or  their  plots.  •  He  was 
willing  to  use  them  when  their  interests  made  them  friendly,  or 
to  crush  them  wLen  their  intrigues  against  his  policy  rendered 
them  dangerous.  The  adroitness  with  which  he  converted  their 
schemes  in  behalf  of  Matthias,  of  Don  John,  of  Anjou,  into  so 
many  additional  weapons  for  his  own  cause,  can  never  be  too  often 
studied.  It  is  instructive  to  observe  the  wiles  of  the  Maehiavel- 
ian  school  employed  by  a  master  of  the  craft,  to  frustrate,  not  to 
advance,  a  knavish  purpose.  This  character,  in  a  great  measure, 
marked  his  whole  policy.  He  was  profoundly  skilled  in  the 
subtleties  of  Italian  statesmanship,  which  he  had  learned  as  a 
youth  at  the  imperial  court,  and  which  he  employed  in  his  man- 
hood in  the  service,  not  of  tyranny,  but  of  liberty.  He  fought 
the  Inquisition  with  its  own  weapons.  He  dealt  with  Philip  on 
his  own  ground.  He  excavated  the  earth  beneath  the  king's 
feet  by  a  more  subtle  process  than  that  practiced  by  the  most 
fraudulent  monarch  that  ever  governed  the  Spanish  Empire ;  and 
Philip,  chain-mailed  as  he  was  in  complicated  wiles,  was  pierced 
to  the  quick  by  a  keener  policy  than  his  own. 

Ten  years  long,  the  king  placed  daily  his  most  secret  letters  in 


JOHN   LOTHROP   MOTLEY.  273 

hands  which  regularly  transmitted  copies  of  the  correspondence 
to  the  Prince  of  Orange,  together  with  a  key  to  the  ciphers,  and- 
every  other  illustration  which  might  be  required.  Thus  the 
secrets  of  the  king  were  always  as  well  known  to  Orange  as  to 
himself;  and,  the  prince  being  as  prompt  as  Philip  was  hesitating, 
the  schemes  could  often  be  frustrated  before  their  execution  had 
been  commenced.  The  crime  of  the  unfortunate  clerk,  John  de 
Castillo,  was  discovered  in  the  autumn  of  the  year  1581 ;  and  he 
was  torn  to  pieces  by  four  horses.  Perhaps  his  treason  to  the 
monarch  whose  bread  he  was  eating,  while  he  received  a  regular 
salary  from  the  king's  most  determined  foe,  deserved  even  this 
horrible  punishment ;  but  casuists  must  determine  how  much 
guilt  attaches  to  the  prince  for  his  share  in  the  transaction. 
This  history  is  not  the  eulogy  of  Orange  ;  although,  in  discussing 
his  character,  it  is  difficult  to  avoid  the  monotony  of  panegyric. 
Judged  by  a  severe  moral  standard,  it  can  not  be  called  virtuous 
or  honorable  to  suborn  treachery  or  any  other  crime,  even  to 
accomplish  a  lofty  purpose:  yet  the  universal  practice  of  mankind 
in  all  ages  has  tolerated  the  artifices  of  war ;  and  no  people  has 
ever  engaged  in  a  holier  or  more  mortal  contest  than  did  the 
Netherlands  in  their  great  struggle  with  Spain.  Orange  pos- 
sessed the  rare  quality  of  caution,  —  a  characteristic  by  which  he 
was  distinguished  from  his  youth.  At  fifteen  he  was  the  confi- 
dential counselor,  as  at  twenty-one  he  became  the  general-in-chief, 
to  the  most  politic  as  well  as  the  most  warlike  potentate  of  his 
age ;  and  if  he  at  times  indulged  in  wiles  which  modern  states- 
manship, even  while  it  practices,  condemns,  he  ever  held  in  his 
hand  the  clew  of  an  honorable  purpose  to  guide  him  through  the 
tortuous  labyrinth. 

It  is  difficult  to  find  any  other  characteristic  deserving  of  grave 
censure ;  but  his  enemies  have  adopted  a  simpler  process.  They 
have  been  able  to  find  a  few  flaws  in  his  nature,  and  therefore  have 
denounced  it  in  gross.  It  is  not  that  his  character  was  here  and 
there  defective,  but  that  the  eternal  jewel  was  false ;  the  patri- 
otism was  counterfeit ;  the  self-abnegation  and  the  generosity  were 
counterfeit ;  he  was  governed  only  by  ambition,  by  a  desire  of 
personal  advancement.  They  never  attempted  to  deny  his  tal- 
ents, his  industry,  his  vast  sacrifices  of  wealth  and  station ;  but 
they  ridiculed  the  idea  that  lie  could  have  been  inspired  by  any 
but  unworthy  motives.  God  alone  knows  the  heart  of  man.  He 
alone  can  unweave  the  tangled  skein  of  human  motives,  and  de- 
tect the  hidden  springs  of  human  action ;  but  as  far  as  can  be 
judged  by  a  careful  observation  of  undisputed  facts,  and  by  a  dili- 
gent collation  of  public  and  private  documents,  it  would  seem  that 
no  man  —  not  even  Washington  —  has  ever  been  inspired  by  a 
purer  patriotism.  At  any  rate,  the  charge  of  ambition  and  self- 
is 


274  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

seeking  can  only  be  answered  by  a  reference  to  the  whole  picture 
which  these  volumes  have  attempted  to  portray.  The  words,  the 
deeds,  of  the  man,  are  there.  As  mucji  as  possible,  his  inmost  soul 
is  revealed  in  his  confidential  letters ;  and  he  who  looks  in  a  right 
spirit  will  hardly  fail  to  find  what  he  desires. 

Whether  originally  of  a  timid  temperament  or  not,  he  was  cer- 
tainly possessed  of  perfect  courage  at  last.  In  siege  and  battle, 
in  the  deadly  air  of  pestilential  cities,  in  the  long  exhaustion  of 
mind  and  body  which  comes  from  unduly  protracted  labor  and 
anxiet\-,  amid  the  countless  conspiracies  of  assassins,  he  was  daily 
exposed  to  death  in  every  shape.  Within  two  years,  five  differ- 
ent attempts  against  his  life  had  been  discovered.  Rank  and 
fortune  were  offered  to  any  malefactor  who  would  compass  the 
murder.  He  had  already  been  shot  through  the  head,  and  almost 
mortally  wounded.  Under  such  circumstances,  even  a  brave  man 
might  have  seen  a  pitfall  at  every  step,  a  dagger  in  every  hand, 
and  poison  in  every  cup.  On  the  contrary,  he  was  ever  cheerful, 
and  hardly  took  more  precaution  than  usual.  "God,  in  his 
mercy,"  said  he  with  unaffected  simplicity,  "  will  maintain  my 
innocence  and  my  honor  during  my  life,  and  in  future  ages.  As 
to  my  fortune  and  my  life,  I  have  dedicated  both,  long  since,  to 
his  service.  He  will  do  therewith  what  pleases  him  for  his  glory 
and  my  salvation."  Thus  his  suspicions  were  not  even  excited 
l>v  the  ominous  face  of  Gerard  when  he  first  presented  himself  at 
the  dining-room  door.  The  prince  laughed  off  his  wife's  pro- 
phetic apprehension  at  the  sight  of  his  murderer,  and  was  as 
cheerful  as  usual  to  the  last. 

He  possessed,  too,  that  which  to  the  heathen  philosopher  seemed 
the  greatest  good,  —  the  sound  mind  in  the  sound  body.  His 
physical  frame  was  after  death  found  so  perfect,  that  a  long  life 
might  have  been  in  store  for  him,  notwithstanding  all  which  he 
had  endured.  The  desperate  illness  of  1574,  the  frightful  gun- 
shot wound  inflicted  by  Jaureguy  in  1582,  had  left  no  traces. 
The  physicians  pronounced  that  his  body  presented  an  aspect  of 
perfect  health.  His  temperament  was  cheerful.  At  table,  the 
pleasures  of  which,  in  moderation,  were  his  only  relaxation,  he 
was  always  animated  and  merry;  and  this  jocoseness  was  partly 
natural,  partly  intentional.  In  the  darkest  hours  of  his  country's 
trial,  he  affected  a  serenity  which  he  was  far  from  feeling;  so  that 
his  apparent  gayety  at  momentous  epochs  was  even  censured  by 
dullards,  who  could  not  comprehend  its  philosophy,  nor  applaud 
the  flippancy  of  William  the  Silent. 

He  went  through  life  bearing  the  load  of  a  people's  sorrows 
upon  his  shoulders  with  a  smiling  face.  Their  name  was  the  last 
word  upon  his  lips,  save  the  simple  affirmative  with  which  the 
soldier,  who  had  been  battling  for  the  right  all  his  lifetime,  coin- 


CHARLES   SUMNER.  275 

mended  his  soul,  in  dying,  "  to  his  great  Captain,  Christ."  The 
people  were  grateful  and  affectionate  ;  for  they  trusted  the  charac- 
ter of  their  "Father  William:"  and  not  all  the  clouds  which  cal- 
umny could  collect  ever  dimmed  to  their  eyes  the  radiance  of 
that  lofty  mind  to  which  they  were  accustomed,  in  the  darkest 
calamities,  to  look  for  light.  As  long  as  he  lived,  he  was  the 
guiding-s'tar  of  a  whole  brave  nation ;  and,  when  he  died,  the  little 
children  cried  in  the  streets. 


CHARLES     SUMNER 

BORN  JAN.  6, 1811,  MASSACHUSETTS. 

Orator,  statesman,  and  philanthropist.  Every  question  of  law,  politics,  or  morals, 
that  this  distinguished  scholar  touches  upon,  is  treated  in  an  ejoquent  and  exhaus- 
tive manner.  His  essays,  speeches,  and  orations  are  now  publishing  in  several 
volumes. 


FINGER-POINT   FROM   PLYMOUTH  ROCK. 

.  Mr.  President,  —  You  bid  me  speak  for  the  Senate  of  the 
United  States.  But  I  can  not  forget  that  there  is  another  voice 
here,  of  classical  eloquence,  which  might  more  fitly  render  this 
service.  As  one  of  the  humblest  members  of  that  bodj7,  and  asso- 
ciated with  the  public  councils  for  a  brief  period  only,  I  should 
prefer  that  my  distinguished  colleague  [Mr.  Everett],  whose  fame 
is  linked  with  a  long  political  life,  should  speak  for  it.  And  there 
is  yet  another  here  [Mr.  Hale],  who,  though  not  at  this  moment 
a  member  of  the  Senate,  has  throughout  an  active  and  brilliant 
career,  marked  by  a  rare  combination  of  ability,  eloquence,  and 
good  humor,  so  identified  himself  with  it  in  the  public  mind,  that 
he  might  well  speak  for  it  always ;  and,  when  he  speaks,  all  are 
pleased  to  listen.  But,  sir,  you  have  ordered  it  otherwise. 

From  the  tears  and  trials  at  Delft  Haven,  from  the  deck  of  "  The 
Mayflower,"  from  the  landing  at  Plymouth  Rock,  to  the  Senate 
of  the  United  States,  is  a  mighty  contrast,  covering  whole  spaces 
of  history,  —  hardly  less  than  from  the  wolf  that  suckled  Romulus 
and  Remus  to  that  Roman  Senate,  which,  on  curule  chairs,  swayed 
Italy  and  the  world.  From  these  obscure  beginnings  of  poverty 
and  weakness,  which  you  now  piously  commemorate,  and  on  which 
all  our  minds  naturally  rest  to-day,  you  bid  us  leap  to  that  marble 
capitol,  where  thirty-one  powerful  republics,  bound  in  indissoluble 
union,  a  plural  unit,  are  gathered  together  in  legislative  bodmy, 
constituting  a  part  of  one  government,  which,  stretching  from 


276  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

ocean  to  ocean,  and  counting  millions  of  people  beneath  its  majes- 
tic rule,  surpasses  far  in  wealth  and  might  any  government  of  the 
Old  World  when  the  little  band  of  Pilgrims  left  it ;  and  now  prom- 
ises to  be  a  clasp  between  Europe  and  Asia,  bringing  the  most 
distant  places  near  together,  so  that  there  shall  be  no  more  Ori- 
ent or  Occident.  It  were  interesting  to  dwell  on  the  stages  of 
this  grand  procession ;  but  it  is  enough,  on  this  occasion,  merely 
to  glance  at  them,  and  pass  on. 

Sir,  it  is  the  Pilgrims  that  we  commemorate  to-day,  not  the 
Senate.  For  this  moment,  at  least,  let  us  tread  under  foot  all 
pride  of  empire,  all  exultation  in  our  manifold  triumphs  of 
industry,  of  science,  of  literature,  with  all  the  crowding  antici- 
pations of  the  vast  untold  future,  that  we  may  reverently  bow 
before  the  forefathers.  The  day  is  tt  eirs.  In  the  contemplation 
of  their  virtue  we  shall  derive  a  lesson,  which,  like  truth,  may 
judge  us  sternly;  but  it  we  cnn  realty  follow  it,  like  truth,  it 
shall  make  us  free.  For  myself,  I  accept  the  admonitions  of  the 
day.  It  may  teach  us  all,  never  by  word  or  act,  although  we  may 
be  few  in  numbers  or  alone,  to  swerve  from  those  primal  princi- 
ples of  duty,  which,  from  the  landing  at  Plymouth  Rock,  have 
been  the  life  of  Massachusetts.  Let  me  briefly  unfold  the  lesson ; 
though,  to  the  discerning  soul,  it  unfolds  itself. 

Few  persons  in  history  have  suffered  more  from  contemporary 
misrepresentation,  abuse,  and 'persecution,  than  the  English  Puri- 
tans. At  first  a  small  body,  they  were  regarded  with  indifference 
and  contempt.  But  by  degrees  they  grew  in  numbers,  and  drew 
into  their  company  men  of  education,  intelligence,  and  even  of 
rank.  Reformers  in  all  ages  have  had  little  of  blessing  from  the 
world  which  they  sought  to  serve ;  but  the  Puritans  were  not  dis- 
h  carter  id.  Still  they  persevered.  The  obnoxious  laws  of  con- 
formity they  vowed  to  withstand,  till,  in  the  fervid  language  of 
the  time,  "they  be  sent  back  to  the  darkness  from  whence  they 
came."  Through  them,  the  spirit  of  modern  freedom  made  itself 
potently  felt  in  :>s  great  warfare  with  authority  in  Church,  in 
Literature,  and  in  the  State  ;  in  other  words,  for  religious,  intel- 
lectual, and  political  emancipation.  The  Puritans  primarily 
aimed  at  religious  freedr  n :  for  this  they  contended  in  Parlia- 
ment, under  Elizabeth  and  James;  for  this  they  suffered.  But  so 
connected  are  all  these  great  and  glorious  interests,  that  the 
struggles  for  one  have  always  helped  the  others.  Such  service 
did  they  do,  that  Hume,  whose  cold  nature  sympathized  little  with 
their  burning  souls,  is  obliged  to  confess,  that,  to  the  Puritans 
alone,  "the  English  owe  the  whole  freedom  of  their  constitution." 

As  among  all  reformers,  so  among  them,  there  were  differences* 
of  degree.  Some  continued  within  the  pale  of  the  national 
Church,  and  there  pressed  their  ineffectual  attempts  in  behalf  of 


CHARLES   SUMNER.  277 

the  good  cause.  Some,  at  length,  driven  by  conscientious  convic- 
tions, and  unwilling  to  be  partakers  longer  in  its  enormities,  stung 
also  by  the  cruel  excesses  of  magisterial  power,  openly  disclaimed 
the  National  Establishment,  and  became  a  separate  sect,  —  first 
under  the  name  of  Brownists,  from  the  person  who  had  led  in  this 
new  organization ;  and  then  under  the  better  name  of  Separatists. 
I  like  this  word,  sir.  It  has  a  meaning.  After  long  struggles  in 
Parliament  and  out  of  it,  in  Church  and  State,  continued  through 
successive  reigns,  the  Puritans  finally  triumphed ;  and  the  de- 
spised sect  of  Separatists,  swollen  in  numbers,  and  now  under  the 
denomination  of  Independents,  with  Oliver  Cromwell  at  their  head, 
and  John  Milton  as  his  secretary,  ruled  England.  Thus  is  pre- 
figured the  final  triumph  of  all,  however  few  in  numbers,  who 
sincerely  devote  themselves  to  truth. 

The  Pilgrims  of  Plymouth  were  among  the  earliest  of  the  Sep- 
aratists. As  such,  they  knew  by  bitter  experience  all  the  sharp- 
ness of  persecution.  Against  them  the  men  in  power  raged  like 
the  heathen.  Against  them  the  whole  fury  of  the  law  was 
directed.  Some  were  imprisoned;  all  were  impoverished ;  while 
their  name  became  a  by-word  of  reproach.  For  safety  and  free- 
dom, the  little  band  first  sought  shelter  in  Holland,  where  they  con- 
tinued in  indigence  and  obscurity  for  more  than  ten  years ;  when 
they  were  inspired  to  seek  a  home  in  this  unknown  Western 
world.  Such,  in  brief,  is  their  history.  I  could  not  say  more  of 
it  without  intruding  upon  your  time:  I  could  not  say  less  without 
injustice  to  them.  Rarely  have  austere  principles  been  expressed 
with  more  gentleness  than  from  their  lips.  By  a  covenant  with 
the  Lord,  they  had  vowed  to  walk  in  all  his  ways,  according  to 
their  best  endeavors,  whatsoever  it  should  cost  them ;  and  also  to 
receive  whatsoever  truth  should  be  made  known  from  the  written 
word  of  God.  Repentance  and  prayers,  patience  and  tears,  were 
their  weapons.  "  It  is  not  with  us,"  said  they,  "  as  with  other 
men,  whom  small  things  can  discourage,  or  small  discontent- 
ments cause  to  wish  themselves  at  home  again."  And  then, 
again,  on  another  occasion,  their  souls  were  lifted  to  utterance 
like  this :  "  When  we  are  in  our  graves,  it  will  be  all  one  whether 
we  have  lived  in  plenty  or  penury;  whether  we  have  died  in  a  bed 
of  down,  or  on  locks  of  straw."  Self-sacrifice  is  never  in  vain  ;  and 
they  foresaw  with  the  clearness  of  prophecy,  that  out  of  their 
trials  should  come  a  transcendent  future.  "As  one  small  candle," 
said  an  early  Pilgrim  governor,  "  may  lio;ht  a  thousand,  so  the  light 
kindled  here  may  in  some  sort  shine  even  to  the  whole  nation." 

And  yet  these  men,  with  such  sublime  endurance  and  such 
lofty  faith,  are  among  those  who  are  Sometimes  called  "  Puritan 
knaves"  and  "knaves-Puritans,"  and  who  were  branded  by  King 
James  as  the  "  very  pests  in  the  Church  and  Commonwealth." 


278  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

The  small  company  of  our  forefathers  became  the  jest  and  gibe  of 
fashion  and  power.  The  phrase,  "men  of  one  idea,"  had  not  been 
invented  then;  but,  in  equivalent  language,  they  were  styled 
"  the  pinched  fanatics  of  Ley  den."  A  contemporary  poet,  and 
favorite  of  Charles  the  First,  Thomas  Carew,  lent  his  genius  to 
their  defamation.  A  mask,  from  his  elegant  and  careful  pen, 
was  performed  by  the  monarch  and  his  courtiers,  wherein  the  whole 
plantation  of  Xe\v  England  was  turned  to  royal  sport.  The  jeer 
broke  forth  in  the  exclamation,  that  it  had  "purged  more  virulent 
humors  from  the  politic  bodies  than  guaiarum  and  all  the  West- 
Indian  drugs  from  the  natural  bodies  of  the  kingdom." 

And  these  outcasts,  despised  in  their  own  day  by  the  proud  and 
great,  are  the  men  whom  we  have  met  in  this  goodly  number  to 
celebrate,  —  not  for  any  victory  of  war  ;  not  for  any  triumph  of 
discovery,  science,  learning,  or  eloquence  ;  not  for  worldly  success 
of  any  kind.  How  poor  are  all  these  things  by  the  side  of  that 
divine  virtue  which  made  them,  amidst  the  reproach,  the  obloquy, 
and  the  hardness  of  the  world,  hold  fast  to  freedom  and  truth  ! 
Sir,  if  the  honors  of  this  day  are  not  a  mockery  ;  if  they  do  not 
expend  themselves  in  mere  selfish  gratulation;  if  they  are  a 
sincere  homage  to  the  character  of  the  Pilgrims  (and  I  can  not 
suppose  otherwise),  —  then  is  it  well  for  us  to  be  here.  Standing 
on  Plymouth  Rock  at  their  great  anniversary,  we  can  not  fail  to 
be  elevated  by  their  example.  We  see  clearly  what  it  has  done 
for  the  world,  and  what  it  has  done  for  their  fame.  No  pusil- 
lanimous soul  here  to-day  will  declare  their  self-sacrifice,  their  de- 
viation from  received  opinions,  their  unquenchable  thirst  for  liber- 
ty, an  error  or  illusion.  From  gush  ing  multitudinous  hearts  we 
now  thank  these  lowly  men  that  they  dared  to  be  true  and  brave. 
Conformity  or  compromise  might,  perhaps,  have  purchased  for 
them  a  profitable  peace,  but  not  peace  of  mind ;  it  might  have 
secured  place  anil  power,  but  not  repose  ;  it  might  have  opened  a 
present  shelter,  but  not  a  home  in  history  and  in  men's  hearts  till 
time  shall  be  no  more.  All  will  confess  the  true  grandeur  of  their 
example,  while,  in  vindication  of  a  cherished  principle,  they  stood 
alone,  against  the  madness  of  men,  against  the  law  of  the  land, 
against  their  king.  Better  be  the  despised  Pilgrim,  a  fugitive 
for  freedom,  than  the  halting  politician,  forgetful  of  principle, 
"  with  a  senate  at  his  heels." 

Such,  sir,  is  the  voice  from  Plymouth  Hock  as  it  salutes  my 
ears.  Others  may  not  hear  it ;  but  to  me  it  comes  in  tones 
which  I  can  not  mistake.  I  catch  its  words  of  noble  cheer :  — 

"New  occasions  teach  new  duties;  Time  makes  ancient  good  uncouth. 
They  must  upward  still  and  onward  who  would  keep  abreast  of  Truth: 
Lo!  before  u*  sleam  her  camp-fires.     We  ourselves  mn<t  Pilgrims  be, 
Launch  our  'Mayflower,'  and  steer  boldly  through  the  de-nerate  winter  sea." 

Speech  at  the  Plymouth  Ftstival,  August,  1853. 


CHARLES   SUMNER.  279 


EXPENSES    OF    WAR   AND   EDUCATION   COMPARED. 

IT  appears  from  the  last  report  of  the  treasurer  of  Harvard 
University,  that  its  whole  available  property  —  the  various  accu- 
mulations of  more  than  two  centuries  of  generosity — amounts  to 
$703,175. 

There  now  swings  idly  at  her  moorings  in  this  harbor  a  ship 
of  the  line,  "The  Ohio,"  carrying  ninety  guns,  finished  as  late  as 
1836,  for  $547,888 ;  repaired  only  two  years  afterwards,  in  1838, 
for  $223,012 ;  with  an  armament  which  has  cost  $53,945 ;  mak- 
ing an  amount  of  $834,845  as  the  actual  cost  at  this  moment  of 
that  single  ship,  — more  than  $100,000  beyond  all  the  available 
accumulations  of  the  richest  and  most  ancient  seat  of  learning  in 
the  land !  Choose  ye,  my  fellow-citizens  of  a  Christian  State,  be- 
tween the  two  caskets,  —  that  wrherein  is  the  loveliness  of  knowl- 
edge and  truth,  or  that  which  contains  the  carrion  death. 

Still  further  let  us  pursue  the  comparison.  The  pay  of  the 
captain  of  a  ship  like  "The  Ohio"  is  $4,500  when  in  service; 
$3,500  when  on  leave  of  absence,  or  off  duty.  The  salary  of  the 
president  of  Harvard  University  is  $2,205,  without  leave  of  ab- 
sence, and  never  being  off  duty. 

If  the  large  endowments  of  Harvard  University  are  dwarfed  by 
a  comparison  with  the  expense  of  a  single  ship  of  the  line,  how 
much  more  must  it  be  so  with  those  Of  other  institutions  of  learn- 
ing and  beneficence  less  favored  by  the  bounty  of  many  genera- 
tions!  The  average  cost  of  a  sloop  of  war  is  $315,000;  more, 
probably,  than  all  the  endowments  of  those  twin-stars  of  learning 
in  the  western  part  of  Massachusetts,  —  the  colleges  at  Williams- 
town  and  Amhei'st;  and  of  that  single  star  in  the  east,  the  guide 
to  many  ingenuous  youth,  —  the  seminary  at  Andover.  The  yearly 
cost  of  a  sloop  of  war  in  service  is  above  $50,000;  more  than  the 
annual  expenditures  of  these  three  institutions  combined. 

Take  all  the  institutions  of  learning  and  beneficence,  —  the  pre- 
cious jewels  of  the  Commonwealth, — the  schools,  colleges,  hospitals, 
and  asylums,  and  the  sums  by  which  they  have  been  purchased 
and  preserved  are  trivial  and  beggarly  compared  with  the  treas- 
ures squandered  within  the  borders  of  Massachusetts  in  vain 
preparations  for  war.  There  is  the  navy-yard  at  Charlestown, 
with  its  stores  on  hand,  all  costing  $4,741,000;  the  fortifications 
in  the  harbors  of  Massachusetts,  in  which  have  been  sunk  already 
incalculable  sums,  and  in  which  it  is  now  proposed  to  sink 
$3,853,000  more ;  and,  besides,  the  arsenal  at  Springfield,  con- 
taining, in  1842,  175,118  muskets,  valued  at  $2,999,998,  and 
which  is  fed  by  an  annual  appropriation  of  about  $200,000,  but 
whose  highest  value  will  ever  be,  in  the  judgment  of  all  lovers  of 


280  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

truth,  that  it  inspired  a  poem,  which  in  its  influence  shall  be 
mightier  than  a  battle,  and  shall  endure  when  arsenals  and  forti- 
fications have  crumbled  to  the  earth. 


J  UDI CIAL    TR  IB  UNALS. 

LET  me  here  say,  that  I  hold  judges,  and  especially  the  Supreme 
Court  of  the  country,  in  much  respect;  but  I  am  too  familiar  with 
the  history  of  judicial  proceedings  to  regard  them  with  any  super- 
stitious reverence.  Judges  are  but  men,  and,  in  all  ages,  have 
shown  a  full  share  of  human  frailty.  Alas,  alas!  the  worst 
crimes  of  history  have  been  perpetrated  under  their  sanction. 
The  blood  of  martyrs  and  of  patriots,  crying  from  the  ground, 
summons  them  to  judgment.  It  was  a  judicial  tribunal  which 
condemned  Socrates  to  drink  the  fatal  hemlock,  and  which  pu.-hed 
the  Saviour  barefoot  over  the  pavements  of  Jerusalem,  bending 
beneath  his  cross.  It  was  a  judicial  tribunal,  which,  against  the 
testimony  and  entreaties  of  her  father,  surrendered  the  fair  Vir- 
ginia as  a  slave  ;  which  arrested  the  teachings  of  the  great  apostle 
to  the  Gentiles,  and  sent  him  in  bonds  from  Judaea  to  Koine ; 
which,  in  the  name  of  the  old  religion,  adjudged  the  saints  and 
fathers  of  the  Christian  Church  to  death  in  all  its  most  dreadful 
forms;  and  which  afterwards,  in  the  name  of  the  new  religion, 
enforced  the  tortures  of  the  Inquisition  a  ni-lst  the  shrieks  an>l 
agonies  of  its  victims,  while  it  compelled  Galileo  to  declare,  in 
solemn  denial  of  the  great  truth  he  had  disclosed,  that  the  earth 
did  not  move  round  the  sun.  It  was  a  julicial  tribunal,  which  in 
France,  during  the  long  reign  of  her  monarch*,  lent  itself  to  be 
the  instrument  of  every  tyranny,  as,  during  the  brief  Reign  of 
Terror,  it  did  not  hesitate  to  stand  forth  the  unpi tying  accessory  of 
the  unpitying  guillotine.  Ay,  sir,  it  was  a  judicial  tribunal  in 
England,  surrounded  by  all  the  forms  of  law,  which  sanctioned 
every  despotic  caprice  of  Henry  the  Eighth,  from  the  unjust 
divorce  of  hi*  queen  to  the  beheading  of  Sir  Thomas  More; 
which  lighted  the  fires  of  persecution  that  glowed  at  Oxford  and 
Smithfield  over  the  cinders  of  Latimer,  Ridley,  and  John  Rogers; 
which,  after  elaborate  argument,  upheld  the  fatal  tyranny  of  ship- 
money  against  the  patriot  resistance  of  Hampden  ;  which,  in 
defiance  of  justice  and  humanity,  sent  Sidney  and  Russell  to  the 
block ;  which  persistently  enforced  the  laws  of  conformity  that 
our  Puritan  Fathers  persistently  refused  to  obey;  and  which 
afterwards,  with  Jeffries  on  the  bench,  crimsoned  the  pages  of 
English  history  with  massacre  and  murder.  —  even  with  the  blood 
of  innocent  woman.  Ay,  sir,  and  it  was  a  judicial  tribunal  in  our 


EDWARD    EVERETT.  281 

country,  surrounded  by  all  the  forms  of  law,  which  hung  Avitches 
at  Salem ;  which  affirmed  the  constitutionality  of  the  Stamp  Act, 
while  it  admonished  "jurors  and  the  people "  to  obey ;  and 
which  now,  in  our  day,  has  lent  its  sanction  to  the  unutterable 
atrocity  of  the  Fugitive-slave  Bill. 

Speech  at  Worcester,  September,  1854. 


EDWARD    EVERETT. 

1794-1866. 

This  distinguished  scholar,  orator,  and  statesman  was  born  in  Dorchester,  Mass. 
Of  a  wonderful  memory,  he  committed  all  his  rhetorically  faultless  orations  and 
speeches,  and  declaimed  them  witii  the  most  studied  precision  of  gesture.  What- 
ever the  subject  or  occasion,  we  find  the  same  grace  and  elegance  of  manner  in 
style  and  speech.  From  the  third  volume  of  his  works  we  make  two  selections. 


DUDLEY   OBSERVATORY,   ALBANY,   1856. 

WE  derive  from  the  observations  of  the  heavenly  bodies  which 
are  made  at  an  observatory  our  only  adequate  measures  of  time, 
and  our  only  means  of  comparing  the  time  of  one  place  witli  the 
time  of  another.  Our  artificial  timekeepers,  —  clocks,  watches, 
and  chronometers,  —  however  ingeniously  contrived  and  admira- 
bly fabricated,  are  but  a  transcript,  so  to  say,  of  the  celestial  mo- 
tions, and  would  be  of  no  value  without  the  means  of  regulating 
them  by  observation.  It  is  impossible  for  them,  under  any  cir- 
cumstances, to  escape  the  imperfection  of  all  machinery,  the  work 
of  human  hands ;  and,  the  moment  we  remove  with  our  time- 
keeper east  or  west,  it  fails  us.  It  will  keep  home-time  alone,  like 
the  fond  traveler  who  leaves  his  heart  behind  him.  The  artifi- 
cial instrument,  is  of  incalculable  utility,  but  must  itself  be  regu- 
lated by  the  eternal  clockwork  of  the  skies. 

This  single  consideration  is  sufficient  to  show  how  completely 
the  daily  business  of  life  is  affected  and  controlled  by  the  heavenly 
bodies.  It  is  they,  and  not  our  main-springs,  our  expansion- 
balances,  and  our  compensation-pendulums,  which  give  us  our 
time.  To  reverse  the  line  of  Pope,  — 

'"Tis  with  our  watches  as  our  judgments:  none 
Go  just  alike;  yet  each  believes  his  own." 

But  for  all  the  kindreds  and  tribes  and  tongues  of  men,  —  each 
upon  their  own  meridian,  —  from  the  arctic  pole  to  the  equator, 


282  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

from  the  equator  to  the  antarctic  pole,  the  eternal  sun  strikes 
twelve  at  noon,  and  the  glorious  constellations  far  up  in  the  ever- 
lasting belfries  of  the  skies  chime  twelve  at  midnight,  —  twelve 
for  the  pale  student  over  his  flickering  lamp  ;  twelve  amid  the 
flaming  wonders  of  Orion's  belt,  if  he  crosses  the  meridian  at  that 
fated  hour;  twelve  by  the  weary  couch  of  laHguishing  humanity; 
twelve  in  the  star-paved  courts  of  the  empyrean  ;  twelve  for  the 
heaving  tides  of  the  ocean ;  twelve  for  the  weary  arm  of  labor ; 
twelve  for  the  toiling  brain;  twelve  for  the  watching, 'waking, 
broken  heart ;  twelve  for  the  meteor  which  blazes  for  a  moment, 
and  expires;  twelve  for  the  comet  whose  period  is  measured  by 
centuries ;  twelve  for  every  substantial,  for  ever}7  imaginary  thing, 
which  exists  in  the  sense,  the  intellect,  or  the  fancy,  and  which 
the  speech  or  thought  of  man  at  the  given  meridian  refers  to  the 
lapse  of  time. 

I  had  occasion,  a  few  weeks  since,  to  take  the  early  train  from 
Providence  to  Boston,  and  for  this  purpose  rose  at  two  o'clock  in 
the  morning.  Every  thing  around  was  wrapped  in  darkness,  and 
hushed  in  silence,  broken  only  b}^  what  seemed  at  that  hour  the 
unearthly  clank  and  rush  of  the  train.  It  was  a  mild,  serene 
midsummer's  night :  the  sky  was  without  a  cloud ;  the  winds  were 
whist.  The  moon,  then  in  the  last  quarter,  had  just  risen  ;  and 
the  stars  shone  with  a  spectral  luster  but  little  affected  by  her 
presence.  Jupiter,  two  hours  high,  was  the  herald  of  the  day ; 
the  Pleiades,  just  above  the  horizon,  shed  their  sweet  influence  in 
the  east;  Lyra  sparkled  near  the  zenith;  Andromeda  veiled  her 
newly-discovered  glories  from  the  naked  eye  in  the  south  ;  the 
steady  Pointers  far  beneath  the  pole  looked  meekly  up  from  the 
depths  of  the  north  to  their  sovereign. 

JSucl)  was  the  glorious  spectacle  as  I  entered  the  train.  As  we 
proceeded,  the  timid  approach  of  twilight  became  more  percepti- 
ble ;  the  intense  blue  of  the  sky  began  to  soften;  the  smaller 
stars,  like  little  children,  went  first  to  rest;  the  sister-beams  of 
the  Pleiades  soon  melted  together:  but  the  bright  constellations 
of  the  west  and  north  remained  unchanged.  Steadily  the  won- 
drous transfiguration  went  on.  Hands  of  angels  hidden  from 
mortal  eyes  shifted  the  scenery  of  the  heavens  ;  the  glories  of  night 
dissolved  into  the  glories  of  the  dawn.  The  blue  sky  now  turned 
more  softly  gray;  the  great  watch-stars  shut  up  their  holy  eyes; 
the  east  began  to  kindle.  Faint  streaks  of  purple  soon  blushed 
along  the  sky ;  the  whole  celestial  concave  was  filled  with  the  in- 
flowing tides  of  the  morning  light,  which  came  pouring  down 
from  above  in  one  great  ocean  of  radiance ;  till  at  length,  as  we 
reached  the  Blue  Hills,  a  flash  of  purple  fire  blazed  out  from  above 
the  horizon,  and  turned  the  dewy  tear-drops  of  flower  and  It-af 


EDWARD   EVERETT.  283 

into  rubies  and  diamonds.  In  a  few  seconds,  the  everlasting  gates 
of  the  morning  were  thrown  wide  open,  and  the  lord  of  day,  ar- 
rayed in  glories  too  severe  for  the  gaze  of  man,  began  his  state. 


ADDRESS  BEFORE    THE   NEW-YORK  AGRICULTURAL 
SOCIETY,   1857. 

A  CELEBRATED  skeptical  philosopher  of  the  last  century  —  the 
historian  Hume — thought  to  demolish  the  credibility  of  the 
Christian  revelation  by  the  concise  argument,  "  It  is  contrary 
to  experience  that  a  miracle  should  be  true,  but  not  contrary  to 
experience  that  testimony  should  be  false."  Contrary  to  experi- 
rience  that  phenomena  should  exist  which  we  can  not  trace  to 
causes  perceptible  to  the  human  sense  or  conceivable  by  human 
thought !  It  would  be  much  nearer  the  truth  to  say,  that,  within 
the  husbandman's  experience,  there  are  no  phenomena  which  can 
be  rationally  traced  to  any  thing  but  the  instant  energy  of  crea- 
tive power. 

Did  this  philosopher  ever  contemplate  the  landscape  at  the  close 
of  the  year,  when  seeds  and  grains  and  fruits  have  ripened,  and 
stalks  have  withered,  and  leaves  have  fallen,  and  Winter  has  forced 
her  icy  curb  even  into  the  roaring  jaws  of  Niagara,  and  sheeted 
half  a  continent  in  her  glittering  shroud,  and  all  this  teeming  vege- 
tation and  organized  life  are  locked  in  cold  and  marble  obstruc- 
tions ?  And  after  week  upon  week,  and  month  upon  month,  have 
swept,  with  sleet,  and  chilly  rain,  and  howling  storm,  over  the 
earth,  and  riveted  their  crystal  bolts  upon  the  door  of  Nature's 
sepulcher,  —  when  the  sun  at  length  begins  to  wheel  in  higher 
circles  through  the  sk}-,  and  softer  winds  to  breathe  over  melting 
snows,  — did  he  ever  behold  the  long-hidden  earth  at  length  ap- 
pear, and  soon  the  timid  grass  peep  forth,  and  anon  the  autumnal 
wheat  begin  to  paint  the  field,  and  velvet  leaflets  to  burst  from 
purple  buds  throughout  the  reviving  forest,  and  then  the  mellow 
soil  to  open  its  fruitful  bosom  to  every  grain  and  seed  dropped 
from  the  planter's  hand,  — buried,  but  to  spring  up  again,  clothed 
with  a  new,  mysterious  being?  And  then,  as  more  fervid  suns  in- 
flame the  air,  and  softer  showers  distill  from  the  clouds,  and 
gentler  dews  string  their  pearls  on  twig  and  tendril,  did  he  ever 
watch  the  ripening  grain  and  fruit,  pendent  from  stalk  and  vine 
and  tree  ;  the  meadow,  the  field,  the  pasture,  the  grove,  each  after 
his  kind,  arrayed  in  myriad-tinted  garments,  instinct  with  circu- 
lating life ;  seven  millions  of  counted  leaves  on  a  single  tree,  each 
of  which  is  a  system  whose  exquisite  complication  puts  to  shame 
the  shrewdest  cunning  of  the  human,  hand;  every  planted  seed 


284  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

and  grain  which  had  been  loaned  to  the  earth  compounding  its 
pious  usury  thirty,  sixty,  a  hundred  fold,  —  all  harmoniously 
adapted  to  the  sustenance  of  living  nature,  the  bread  of  a  hungry 
world ;  here  a  tilled  corn-field,  whose  yellow  blades  are  nodding 
with  the  food  of  man ;  there  an  unplanted  wilderness,  —  the 
great  Father's  farm,  —  where  He  "  who  hears  the  raven's  cry " 
has  cultivated  with  his  own  hand  his  merciful  crop  of  berries 
and  nuts  and  acorns  and  seeds  for  the  humbler  families  of  ani- 
mated nature, — the  solemn  elephant;  the  browsing  deer;  the  wild 
pigeon,  whose  fluttering  caravan  darkens  the  sky;  the  merry 
squirrel,  who  bounds  from  branch  to  branch  in  the  joy  of  his 
little  life,  —  has  he  seen  all  this  ?  Does  he  see  it  every  year  and 
month  and  day  ?  Does  he  live  and  move  and  breathe  and 
think  in  this  atmosphere  of  wonder,  —  himself  the  greatest  won- 
der of  all,  whose  smallest  fiber  and  faintest  pulsation  is  as  much  a 
mystery  as  the  blazing  glories  of  Orion's  belt  ?  And  does  he  still 
maintain  that  a  miracle  is  contrary  to  experience  ?  If  he  has, 
and  if  he  does,  then  let  him  go,  in  the  name  of  Heaven,  and  say 
that  it  is  contrary  to  experience  that  the  august  Power  which  turns 
the  clods  of  the  earth  into  the  daily  bread  of  a  thousand  million 
souls  could  feed  five  thousand  in  the  wilderness. 

One  more  suggestion,  my  friends,  and  I  relieve  your  patience. 
As  a  work  of  art,  I  know  few  things  more  pleasing  to  the  eye,  or 
more  capable  of  affording  sctfpe  and  gratification  to  a  taste  for  the 
beautiful,  than  a  well-situated,  well-cultivated  farm.  The  man  of 
refinement  will  hang  with  never-wearied  gaze  on  a  landscape  by 
Claude  or  Salvator :  the  price  of  a  section  of  the  most  fertile  land 
in  the  West  would  not  purchase  a  few  square  feet  of  the  canvas 
on  which  these  great  artists  have  depicted  a  rural  scene.  But 
Xature  has  forms  and  proportions  beyond  the  painter's  skill :  her 
divine  pencil  touches  the  landscape  with  living  lights  and  shadows 
never  mingled  on  his  pallet.  What  is  there  on  earth  which  can 
more  entirely  charm  the  eye  or  gratify  the  taste  than  a  noble 
farm  ?  It  stands  upon  a  southern  slope,  gradually  rising  with 
variegated  ascent  from  the  plain,  sheltered  from  the  north-western 
winds  by  woody  hights,  broken  here  and  there  with  moss-covered 
bowlders,  which  impart  variety  and  strength  to  the  outline.  The 
native  forest  has  been  cleared  from  the  greater  part  of  the  farm ;  but 
a  suitable  portion,  carefully  tended,  remains  in  wood  for  economical 
purposes,  and  to  give  a  picturesque  effect  to  the  landscape.  The 
eye  ranges  round  three-fourths  of  the  horizon  over  a  fertile  ex- 
panse—  bright  with  the  cheerful  waters  of  a  rippling  stream,  a 
generous  river,  or  a  gleaming  lake  —  dotted  with  hamlets,  each 
with  its  modest  spire ;  and,  if  the  farm  lies  in  the  vicinity  of  the 
coast,  a  distant  glimpse,  from  the  high  grounds,  of  the  mysterious, 
everlasting  sea,  completes  the  prospect.  It  is  situated  off  the  high 


EDWARD   EVERETT.  285 

road,  but  near  enough  to  the  village  to  be  easily  accessible  to  the 
church,  the  schoolhouse,  the  post-office,  the  railroad,  a  sociable 
neighbor,  or  a  traveling  friend.  It  consists,  in  due  proportion,  of 
pasture  and  tillage,  meadow  and  woodland,  field  and  garden.  A 
substantial  dwelling,  with  every  thing  for  convenience,  and  nothing 
for  ambition,  —  with  the  fitting  appendages  of  stable  and  barn 
and  corn-barn  and  other  farm  buildings,  not  forgetting  a  spring- 
house  with  a  living  fountain  of  water,  —  occupies  upon  a  gravelly 
knoll  a  position  well  chosen  to  command  the  whole  estate.  A 
few  acres  on  the  front  and  on  the  sides  of  the  dwelling,  set  apart 
to  gratify  the  eye,  with  the  choicer  forms  of  rural  beauty,  are 
adorned  with  a  stately  avenue,  with  noble,  solitary  trees,  with 
graceful  clumps,  shady  walks,  a  velvet  lawn,  a  brook  murmuring 
over  a  pebbly  bed,  here  and  there  a  grand  rock  whose  cool  shadow 
at  sunset  streams  across  the  field;  all  displaying  in  the  real  love- 
liness of  Nature  the  original  of  those  landscapes  of  which  Art  in 
its  perfection  strives  to  give  us  the  counterfeit  presentment. 
Animals  of  select  breed,  such  as  Paul  Potter  and  Morland  and 
Landseer  and  Rosa  Bonheur  never  painted,  roam  the  pastures,  or 
fill  the  hurdles  and  the  stalls ;  the  plow  walks  in  rustic  majesty 
across  the  plain,  and  opens  the  genial  bosom  of  the  earth  to  the  sun 
and  air;  Nature's  holy  sacrament  of  seed-time  is  solemnized  be- 
neath the  vaulted  cathedral  sky ;  silent  dews  and  gentle  showers 
and  kindly  sunshine  shed  their  sweet  influence  on  the  teeming 
soil ;  springing  verdure  clothes  the  plain  ;  golden  wavelets,  driven 
by  the  west  wind,  run  over  the  joyous  wheat-field;  the  tall  maize 
flaunts  in  her  crispy  leaves  and  nodding  tassels.  While  we  labor  and 
while  we  rest,  while  we  wake  and  while  we  sleep,  God's  chemistry, 
which  we  can  not  see,  goes  on  beneath  the  clods;  myriads  and 
myriads  of  vital  cells  ferment  with  elemental  life  ;  germ  and 
stalk,  and  leaf  and  flower,  and  silk  and  tassel,  and  grain  and  fruit, 
grow  up  from  the  common  earth;  the  mowing-machine  and  the 
reaper  —  mute  rivals  of  human  industry  —  perform  their  gladsome 
task ;  the  well-piled  wagon  brings  home  the  ripened  treasures  of 
the  year  ;  the  bow  of  promise  fulfilled  spans  the  foreground  of  the 
picture;  and  the  gracious  covenant  is  redeemed,  that,  while  tlie 
earth  remaineth,  summer  and  winter,  and  heat  and  cold,  and  day 
and  night,  and  seed-time  and  harvest,  shall  not  fail. 


286  ENGLISH  LITERATUKE. 

DANIEL    WEBSTER 

1782-1852. 

Born  in  Salisbury,  N.  H.  As  a  jurist,  statesman,  and  orator,  he  had  no  superior, 
and  but  few  equals,*  in  ancient  or  modern  times.  His  reply  to  Hayne  in  the  United- 
States  Senate  (1830)  won  him  the  title  of  the  "Godlike  Daniel."  His  life  aud 
speeches  make  several  volumes. 


ELOQUENCE. 

WIIEX  public  bodies  are  to  be  addressed  on  momentous  occa- 
sions, when  great  interests  are  at  stake  and  strong  passions 
excited,  nothing  is  valuable  in  speech  further  than  it  is  connected 
with  high  intellectual  and  moral  endowments.  Clearness,  force, 
and  earnestness  are  the  qualities  which  produce  conviction. 

True  eloquence  does  not  consist  in  speech.  It  can  not  be 
brought  from  afar.  Labor  and  learning  may  toil  for  it ;  but  they 
will  toil  in  vain.  Words  and  phrases  may  be  marshaled  in  every 
way ;  but  they  can  not  compass  it.  It  must  exist  in  the  man,  in 
the  subject,  and  in  the  occasion.  Affected  passion,  intense  ex- 
pression, the  pomp  of  declamation,  —  all  may  aspire  after  it:  they 
can  not  reach  it.  It  comes,  if  it  come  at  all,  like  the  outbreaking 
of  a  fountain  from  the  earth,  or  the  bursting-forth  of  volcanic 
fires,  —  with  spontaneous,  original,  native  force.  The  graces  taught 
in  the  schools,  the  costly  ornaments  and  studied  contrivances  of 
speech,  shock  and  disgust  men,  when  their  own  lives,  and  the 
fate  of  their  wives,  their  children,  and  their  county,  hang  on  the 
decision  of  the  hour.  Then  words  have  lost  their  power;  rhetoric 
is  vain,  and  all  elaborate  oratory  contemptible.  Even  genius 
itself  then  feels  rebuked  and  subdued,  as  in  the  presence  of 
higher  qualities.  Then  patriotism  is  eloquent ;  then  self-devotion 
is  eloquent.  The  clear  conception,  outrunning  the  deductions  of 
logic,  the  high  purpose,  the  firm  resolve,  the  dauntless  spirit, 
speaking  on  the  tongue,  beaming  from  the  eye,  informing  every 
feature,  and  urging  the  whole  man  onward,  right  onward,  to  his 
object,  —  this,  this  is  eloquence  :  or,  rather,  it  is  something  greater 
and  higher  than  all  eloquence;  it  is  action,  —  noble,  sublime, 
Godlike  action. 

B  UNKER-HILL    MON UMEN  T. 

WE  know  that  the  record  of  illustrious  actions  is  most  safely 
deposited  in  the  universal  remembrance  of  mankind.  We  know 
that  if  we  could  cause  this  structure  to  ascend,  not  only  till  it 
reached  the  skies,  but  till  it  pierced  them,  its  broad  surface  would 


DANIEL   WEBSTER.  287 

still  contain  but  part  of  that,  which,  in  an  age  of  knowledge,  hath 
already  been  spread  over  the  earth,  and  which  History  charges 
herself  with  making  known  to  all  future  times.  We  know  that 
no  inscription  on  entablatures  less  broad  than  the  earth  itself  can 
carry  information  of  the  events  we  commemorate  where  it  has  not 
already  gone ;  and  that  no  structure  which  shall  not  outlive  the 
duration  of  letters  and  knowledge  among  men  can  prolong  the 
memorial.  But  our  object  is,  by  this  edifice,  to  show  our  deep 
sense  of  the  value  and  importance  of  the  achievements  of  our  an- 
cestors ;  and,  by  presenting  this  work  of  gratitude  to  the  eye,  to 
keep  alive  similar  sentiments,  and  to  foster  a  similar  regard  to  the 
principles  of  the  Revolution.  Human  beings  are  composed,  not 
of  reason  only,  but  of  imagination  also,  and  sentiment ;  and  that 
is  neither  wasted  nor  misapplied  which  is  appropriated  to  the  pur- 
pose of  giving  right  direction  to  sentiments,  and  opening  proper 
springs  of  feeling  in  the  heart. 

Let  it  not  be  supposed  that  our  object  in  erecting  this  edifice  is 
to  perpetuate  national  hostility,  or  even  to  cherish  a  mere  military 
spirit.  It  is  higher,  purer,  nobler.  We  consecrate  our  work  to 
the  spirit  of  national  independence  ;  and  we  wish  that  the  light  of 
peace  may  rest  upon  it  for  ever.  We  rear  a  memorial  of  our  con- 
viction of  that  unmeasured  benefit  which  has  been  conferred  on 
our  own  land,  and  of  the  happy  influences  which  have  been  pro- 
duced by  the  same  events  on  the  general  interests  of  mankind. 
We  come,  as  Americans,  to  mark  a  spot  which  must  for  ever  be 
dear  to  us  and  our  posterity.  We  wish  that  whosoever,  in  all 
coming  time,  shall  turn  his  eye  hither,  may  behold  that  the  place 
is  not  undistinguished  where  the  first  great  battle  of  the  Revolu- 
tion was  fought.  We  wish  that  this  structure  may  proclaim  the 
magnitude  and  importance  of  that  event  to  every  class  and  every 
age.  We  wish  that  infancy  may  learn  the  purpose  of  its  erection 
from  maternal  lips ;  and  that  weary  and  withered  age  may  behold 
it,  and  be  solaced  by  the  recollections  which  it  suggests.  We 
wish  that  labor  may  look  up  here,  and  be  proud,  in  the  midst  of 
its  toil.  We  wish,  that  in  those  days  of  disaster,  which,  as  they 
come  on  all  nations,  must  be  expected  to  come  on  us  also,  de- 
sponding patriotism  may  turn  its  eyes  hitherward,  and  be  assured 
that  the  foundations  of  our  national  power  still  stand  strong.  We 
wish  that  this  column,  rising  toward  heaven  among  the  pointed 
spires  of  so  many  temples  dedicated  to  God,  may  contribute  also 
to  produce  in  all  minds  a  pious  feeling  of  dependence  and  grati- 
tude. We  wish,  finally,  that  the  last  object  on  the  sight  of  him 
who  leaves  his  native  shore,  and  the  first  to  gladden  his  who 
revisits  it,  may  be  something  which  shall  remind  him  of  the  lib- 
erty and  glory  of  his  country.  Let  it  rise  till  it  meet  the  sun  in 
his  coming;  let  the  earliest  light  of  the  morning  gild  it,  and  part- 
ing day  linger  and  play  on  its  summit. 


288  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


CRIME   REVEALED    BY    CONSCIENCE. 

THE  deed*  was  executed  with  a  degree  of  self-possession  and 
steadiness  equal  to  the  wickedness  with  which  it  was  planned. 
The  circumstances  now  clearly  in  evidence  spread  out  the  whole 
scene  before  us.  Deep  sleep  had  fallen  on  the  destined  victim, 
and  on  all  beneath  his  roof.  A  healthful  old  man,  to  whom  sleep 
was  sweet,  the  first  sound  slumbers  of  the  night  held  him  in  their 
soft  but  strong  embrace.  The  assassin  enters,  through  the  win- 
dow already  prepared,  into  an  unoccupied  apartment.  With 
noiseless  foot  he  paces  the  lonely  hall,  half  lighted  by  the  moon. 
He  winds  up  the  ascent  of  the  stairs,  and  reaches  the  door  of  the 
chamber.  Of  this  he  moves  the  lock,  by  soft  and  continued 
pressure,  till  it  turns  on  its  hinges  without  noise ;  and  he  enters, 
and  beholds  his  victim  before  him.  The  room  was  uncommonly 
open  to  the  admission  of  light.  The  face  of  the  innocent  sleeper 
was  turned  from  the  murderer;  and  the  beams  of  the  moon,  rest- 
ing on  the  gray  locks  of  his  aged  temple,  showed  him  where  to 
strike.  The  fatal  blow  is  given;  and  the  victim  passes,  without 
a  struggle  or  a  motion,  from  the  repose  of  sleep  to  the  repose  of 
death.  It  is  the  assassin's  purpose  to  make  sure  work  ;  and  he 
yet  plies  the  dagger,  though  it  was  obvious  that  life  had  been  de- 
stroyed by  the  blow  of  the  bludgeon.  He  even  raises  the  aged 
arm,  that  he  may  not  fail  in  his  aim  at  the  heart,  and  replaces  it 
again  over  the  wounds  of  the  poniard.  To  finish  the  picture,  he 
explores  the  wrist  for  the  pulse.  He  feels  for  it,  and  ascertains 
that  it  beats  no  longer.  It  is  accomplished.  The  deed  is  done. 
He  retreats,  retraces  his  steps  to  the  window,  passes  out  through 
it  as  he  came  in,  and  escapes.  He  has  done  the  murder  :  no  eye 
has  seen  him ;  no  ear  has  heard  him.  The  secret  is  his  own,  and 
it  is  safe. 

Ah,  gentlemen !  that  was  a  dreadful  mistake.  Such  a  secret 
can  be  safe  nowhere.  The  whole  creation  of  God  has  neither 
nook  nor  corner  where  the  guilty  can  bestow  it,  and  say  it  is  safe. 
Not  to  speak  of  that  Eye  which  glances  through  all  disguises,  and 
beholds  every  thing  as  in  the  splendor  of  noon,  such  secrets  of 
guilt  are  never  safe  from  detection,  even  by  men.  True  it  is, 
generally  speaking,  that  "  murder  will  out."  True  it  is,  that 
Providence  hath  so  ordained,  and  doth  so  govern  things,  that 
those  who  break  the  great  law  of  heaven  by  shedding  man's 
blood,  seldom  succeed  in  avoiding  discovery.  Especially  in  a 
case  exciting  so  much  attention  as  this,  discovery  must  come,  and 
will  come  sooner  or  later.  A  thousand  eyes  turn  at  once  to  ex- 
plore every  man,  every  thing,  every  circumstance,  connected  with 

*  The  murder  of  Joseph  White,  Esq.,  of  Salc-m,  Mass.,  ApriL6,  1830. 


DANIEL   WEBSTER.  289 

the  time  and  place;  a  thousand  ears  catch  every  whisper;  a  thou- 
sand excited  minds  intensely  dwell  on  the  scene,  shedding  all 
their  light,  and  ready  to  kindle  the  slightest  circumstance  into  a 
blaze  of  discovery.  Meantime,  the  guilty  soul  can  not  keep  its 
own  secret.  It  is  false  to  itself;  or,  rather,  it  feels  an  irresistible 
impulse  of  conscience  to  be  true  to  itself.  It  labors  under  its 
guilty  possession,  and  knows  not  what  to  do  with  it.  The  human 
heart  was  not  made  for  the  residence  of  such  an  inhabitant.  It 
finds  itself  preyed  on  by  a  torment  which  it  dares  not  acknowl- 
edge to  God  nor  man.  A  vulture  is  devouring  it;  and  it  can  ask  no 
sympathy  or  assistance  either  from  heaven  or  earth.  The  secret 
which  the  murderer  possesses  soon  comes  to  possess  him  ;  and,  like 
the  evil  spirits  of  which  we  read,  it  overcomes  him,  and  leads  him 
whithersoever  it  will.  He  feels  it  beating  at  his  heart,  rising  to 
his  throat,  and  demanding  disclosure.  He  thinks  the  whole  world 
sees  it  in  his  face,  reads  it  in  his  eyes,  and  almost  hears  its  work- 
ings in  the  very  silence  of  his  thoughts.  It  has  become  his 
master.  It  betrays  his  discretion ;  it  breaks  down  his  courage ;  it 
conquers  his  prudence.  When  suspicions  from  without  begin  to 
embarrass  him,  arid  the  net  of  circumstances  to  entangle  him,  the 
fatal  secret  struggles  with  still  greater  violence  to  burst  forth.  It 
must  be  confessed ;  it  will  be  confessed :  there  is  no  refuge  from 
confession  but  suicide ;  and  suicide  is  confession. 


REPLY    TO    HAYNE. 

IT  was  put  as  a  question  for  me  to  answer,  and  so  put  as  if  it 
were  difficult  for  me  to  answer,  whether  I  deemed  the  member 
from  Missouri  an  overmatch  for  myself  in  debate  here.  It  seems 
to  me,  sir,  that  this  is  extraordinary  language  and  an  extraor- 
dinary tone  for  the  discussions  of  this  body.  Matches  and  over- 
matches ! —  those  terms  are  more  applicable  elsewhere  than  here, 
and  fitter  for  other  assemblies  than  this.  Sir,  the  gentleman 
seems  to  forget  where  and  what  we  are.  This  is  a  senate,  —  a  sen- 
ate of  equals,  of  men  of  individual  honor  and  personal  character, 
and  of  absolute  independence.  We  know  no  masters;  we  ac- 
knowledge no  dictators.  This  is  a  hall  for  mutual  consultation 
and  discussion  ;  not  an  arena  for  the  exhibition  of  champions.  I 
offer  myself,  sir,  as  a  match  for  no  man.  I  throw  the  challenge 
of  debate  at  no  man's  feet.  But  then,  sir,  since  the  honorable 
member  has  put  the  question  in  a  manner  that  calls  for  an  an- 
swer, I  will  give  him  an  answer;  and  I  tell  him,  that,  holding 
myself  to  be  the  humblest  of  the  members  here,  I  yet  know  noth- 
ing in  the  arm  of  his  friend  from  Missouri,  either  alone  or  when 

19 


290  .  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

aided  by  the  arm  of  his  friend  from  South  Carolina,  that  need 
deter  even  me  from  espousing  whatever  opinions  I  may  choose  to 
espouse,  from  debating  whenever  I  n^ay  choose  to  debate,  or  from 
speaking  whatever  I  may  see  fit  to  say  on  the  floor  of  the  Senate. 
Sir,  when  uttered  as  matter  of  commendation  or  compliment,  I 
should  dissent  from  nothing  which  the  honorable  member  might 
say  of  his  friend.  Still  less  do  I  put  forth  any  pretensions  of  my 
own.  But,  when  put  to  me  as  a  matter  of  taunt,  I  throw  it  back, 
and  say  to  the  gentleman,  that  he  could  possibly  say  nothing  less 
likely  than  such  a  comparison  to  wound  my  pride  of  personal 
character.  The  anger  of  its  tone  rescued  the  remark  from  inten- 
tional irony,  which  otherwise,  probably,  would  have  been  its  gen- 
eral acceptation.  But,  sir,  if  it  be  imagined  that  by  this  mutual 
quotation  and  commendation ;  if  it  be  supposed  that  by  casting 
the  characters  of  the  drama,  assigning  to  each  his  part,  —  to  one 
the  attack,  to  another  the  cry  of  onset ;  or  if  it  be  thought  that  by 
a  loud  and  empty  vaunt  of  anticipated  victory,  —  any  laurels  are 
to  be  won  here ;  if  it  be  imagined,  especially,  that  any  or  all  of 
these  things  will  shake  any  purpose  of  mine,  —  I  can  tell  the  hon- 
orable member,  once  for  all,  that  he  is  greatly  mistaken,  and  that 
he  is  dealing  with  one  of  whose  temper  and  character  he  has  yet 
much  to  learn.  Sir,  I  shall  not  allow  myself  on  this  occasion  to 
be  betrayed  into  anj'  loss  of  temper ;  but  if  provoked,  as  I  trust  I 
never  shall  allow  myself  to  be,  into  crimination  and  recrimination, 
the  honorable  member  may  perhaps  find,  that  in  that  contest 
there  will  be  blows  to  take  as  well  as  blows  to  give;  that  others 
can  state  comparisons  as  significant,  at  least,  as  his  own;  and  that 
his  impunity  may,  perhaps,  demand  of  him  whatever  powers  of 
taunt  and  sarcasm  he  may  possess.  I  commend  him  to  a  prudent 
husbandry  of  his  resources. 

The  eulogium  pronounced  on  the  character  of  the  State  of  South 
Carolina  by  the  honorable  gentleman,  for  her  revolutionary  and 
other  merits,  meets  my  hearty  concurrence.  I  shall  not  acknowl- 
edge that  the  honorable  member  goes  before  me  in  regard  for 
whatever  of  distinguished  talent  or  distinguished  character  South 
Carolina  has  produced.  I  claim  part  of  the  honor.  I  partake  in 
the  pride  of  her  great  names.  I  claim  them  for  countrj^men,  one 
and  all,  —  the  Laurenses,  Rutledges,  the  Pinckneys,  the  Sum- 
ters,  the  Marions  (Americans  all),  whose  fame  is  no  more  to 
be  hemmed  in  by  State  lines  than  their  talents  and  patriotism 
were  capable  of  being  circumscribed  within  the  same  narrow 
limits.  In  their  day  and  generation,  they  served  and  honored  the 
country,  and  the  whole  country;  and  their  renown  is  of  the  treas- 
ures of  the  whole  country.  Him  whose  honored  name  the  gen- 
tleman bears  himself — does  he  suppose  me  less  capable  of  grati- 


DANIEL  WEBSTER,  291 

tude  for  his  patriotism,  or  sympathy  for  his  sufferings,  than  if  his 
eyes  had  first  opened  upon  the  light  in  Massachusetts,  instead  of 
South  Carolina  ?  Sir,  does  he  suppose  it  in  his  power  to  exhibit 
a  Carolina  name  so  bright  as  to  produce  envy  in  my  bosom  ?  No, 
sir!  —  increased  gratification  and  delight,  rather.  Sir,  I  thank 
God,  that,  if  I  am  gifted  with  little  of  the  spirit  which  is  said  to 
be  able  to  raise  mortals  to  the  skies,  I  have  yet  none,  as  I  trust, 
of  that  other  spirit  which  would  drag  angels  down. 

When  I  shall  be  found,  sir,  in  my  place  here  in  the  Senate,  or 
elsewhere,  to  sneer  at  public  merit  because  it  happened  to  spring 
up  beyond  the  little  limits  of  my  own  State  and  neighborhood ; 
when  I  refuse  for  any  such  cause,  or  for  any  cause,  the  homage 
due  to  American  talent,  to  elevated  patriotism,  to  sincere  devotion 
to  liberty  and  the  country ;  or  if  I  see  an  uncommon  endowment 
of  heaven,  if  I  see  extraordinary  capacity  and  virtue  in  any 
son  of  the  South ;  and  if,  moved  by  local  prejudice,  or  gangrened 
by  State  jealousy,  I  get  up  here  to  abate  the  tithe  of  a  hair  from 
his  just  character  and  just  fame,  —  may  my  tongue  cleave  to  the 
roof  of  my  mouth !  Sir,  let  me  recur  to  pleasing  recollections ; 
let  me  indulge  in  refreshing  remembrances  of  the  past ;  let  me 
remind  you,  that,  in  early  times,  no  States  cherished  greater  har- 
mony, both  of  principle  and  of  feeling,  than  Massachusetts  and 
South  Carolina.  Would  to  God  that  harmony  might  again  re- 
turn! Shoulder  to  shoulder  they  went  through  the  Revolution; 
hand  in  hand  they  stood  round  the  administration  of  Washington, 
and  felt  his  own  great  arm  lean  on  them  for  support.  Unkind 
feeling  (if  it  exist),  alienation,  and  distrust,  are  the  growth,  unnat- 
ural to  such  soils,  of  false  principles  since  sown.  They  are  weeds, 
the  seeds  of  which  that  same  great  arm  never  scattered. 

Mr.  President,  I  shall  enter  on  no  encomium  upon  Massachu- 
setts :  she  needs  none.  There  she  is :  behold  her,  and  judge 
for  yourselves.  There  is  her  history:  the  world  knows  it  by 
heart.  The  past,  at  least,  is  secure.  There  is  Boston  and  Con- 
cord and  Lexington  and  Bunker  Hill;  and  there  they  will  re- 
main for  ever.  The  bones  of  her  sons,  falling  in  the  great  struggle 
for  independence,  now  lie  mingled  with  the  soil  of  every  State, 
from  New  England  to  Georgia ;  and  there  they  will  lie  for  ever. 
And,  sir,  where  American  liberty  raised  its  first  voice,  and  where 
its  youth  was  nurtured  and  sustained,  there  it  still  lives  in  the 
strength  of  its  manhood,  and  full  of  its  original  spirit.  If  discord 
and  disunion  shall  wound  it ;  if  party  st'rife  and  blind  ambition 
shall  hawk  at  and  tear  it ;  if  folly  and  madness,  if  uneasiness  under 
salutary  and  necessary  restraint,  shall  succeed  to  separate  it  from 
that  union  by  which  alone  its  existence  is  made  sure,  —  it  will 
stand  in  the  end  by  the  side  of  that  cradle  in  which  its  infancy 


292  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

was  rocked ;  it  will  stretch  forth  its  arm,  with  whatever  of  vigor 
it  may  still  retain,  over  the  friends  who  gather  round  it ;  and  it 
will  fall  at  last,  if  fall  it  must,  amidst  the  proudest  monuments  of 
its  own  glory,  and  on  the  very  spot  of  its  origin. 

Mr.  President,  I  have  thus  stated  the  reasons  of  my  dissent 
to  the  doctrines  which  have  been  advanced  and  maintained.  I 
am  conscious  of  having  detained  you  and  the  Senate  much  too 
long.  I  was  drawn  into  the  debate  with  no  previous  delibera- 
tion such  as  is  suited  to  the  discussion  of  so  grave  and  important 
a  subject :  but  it  is  a  subject  of  which  my  heart  is  full ;  and  I 
have  not  been  willing  to  suppress  the  utterance  of  its  spontaneous 
sentiments.  I  can  not,  even  now,  persuade  myself  to  relinquish 
it,  without  expressing  once  more  my  deep  conviction,  that,  since 
it  respects  nothing  less  than  the  union  of  the  States,  it  is  of  most 
vital  and  essential  importance  to  the  public  happiness.  I  profess, 
sir,  in  my  career  hitherto,  to  have  kept  steadily  in  view  the  pros- 
perity and  honor  of  the  whole  country,  and  the  preservation  of 
our  Federal  Union.  It  is  to  that  Union  that  we  owe  our  safety  at 
home,  and  our  consideration  and  dignity  abroad.  It  is  to  that 
Union  that  we  are  chiefly  indebted  for  whatever  makes  us  most 
proud  of  our  country.  That  Union  we  reached  only  by  the  dis- 
cipline of  our  virtues  in  the  severe  school  of  adversity.  It  had  its 
origin  in  the  necessities  of  disordered  finance,  prostrate  com- 
mence, and  ruined  credit.  Under  its  benign  influences,  these 
great  interests  immediately  awoke  as  from  the  dead,  and  sprang 
forth  with  newness  of  life.  Every  year  of  its  duration  has  teemed 
with  fresh  proofs  of  its  utility  and  its  blessings;  and  although 
our  territory  lias  stretched  out  wider  and  wider,  and  our  popula- 
tion spread  farther  and  farther,  they  have  not  outrun  its  protec- 
tion or  its  benefits.  It  has  been  to  us  all  a  copious  fountain  of 
national,  social,  and  personal  happiness.  I  have  not  allowed  my- 
self, sir,  to  look  beyond  the  Union  to  see  what  might  lie  hidden 
in  the  dark  recess  behind.  I  have  not  coolly  weighed  the  chances 
of  preserving  liberty  when  the  bonds  that  unite  us  together  shall 
be  broken  asunder.  I  have  not  accustomed  myself  to  hang  over 
the  precipice  of  disunion  to  see  whether,  with  my  short  sight,  I 
can  fathom  the  depth  of  the  abyss  below;  nor  could  I  regard  him 
as  a  safe  counselor  in  the  affairs  of  this  government  whose 
thoughts  should  be  mainly  bent  on  considering,  not  how  the  Union 
should  be  best  preserved,  but  how  tolerable  might  be  the  condition 
of  the  people  when  it  shall  be  broken  up  and  destroyed.  While 
the  Union  lasts,  we  have  high,  exciting,  gratifying  prospects 
spread  out  before  us  for  us  and  our  children.  Beyond  that,  I  seek 
not  to  penetrate  the  veil.  God  grant,  that,  in  my  day  at  least,  that 
curtain  may  not  rise  !  God  grant,  that  on  my  vision  never  may  be 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE.  293 

opened  what  lies  behind !  When  my  eyes  shall  be  turned  to  be- 
hold for  the  last  time  the  sun  in  heaven,  may  I  not  see  him 
shining  on  the  broken  and  dishonored  fragments  of  a  once-glo- 
rious Union ;  on  States  dissevered,  discordant,  belligerent ;  on  a 
land  rent  with  civil  feuds,  or  drenched,  it  may  be,  in  fraternal 
blood  !  Let  their  last  feeble  and  lingering  glance  rather  behold 
the  gorgeous  ensign  of  the  republic,  now  known  and  honored 
throughout  the  earth,  still  full  high  advanced,  its  arms  and  tro- 
phies streaming  in  their  original  luster,  not  a  stripe  erased  or  pol- 
luted, nor  a  single  star  obscured ;  bearing  for  its  motto  no  such 
miserable  interrogatory  as,  What  is  all  this  worth  ?  nor  those 
other  words  of  delusion  and  folly,  Liberty  first,  and  Union  after- 
wards;  but  everywhere,  spread  all  over  in  characters  of  living 
light,  blazing  on  all  its  ample  folds,  as  they  float  over  the  sea  and 
over  the  land,  and  in  every  wind  under  the  whole  heavens,  that 
other  sentiment,  dear  to  every  true  American  heart, — Liberty  and 
Union,  now  and  forever,  one  and  inseparable. 


SAMUEL   TAYLOR    COLERIDGE. 

1772-1834. 

Has  left  a  few  fragments  of  sufficient  excellence  to  prove  that  he  lacked  the  one 
great  element  of  successful  genius,  —  the  decision  of  character  to  execute  a  plan. 
His  essays  and  fragments  of  poems  are  valued  for  the  critical  and  imaginative  power 
shown. 


THE   RIME    OF    THE    ANCIENT    MARINER. 


IT  is  an  ancient  mariner, 

And  he  stoppeth  one  of  three  : 

"  By  thy  long  gray  beard  and  glittering  eye, 

Now  wherefore  stopp'st  thou  me  ? 

"  The  bridegroom's  doors  are  opened  wide, 
And  I  am  next  of  kin  ; 
The  guests  are  met,  the  feast  is  set : 
Mayst  hear  the  merry  din." 

He  holds  him  with  his  skinny  hand  : 

"  There  was  a  ship,"  quoth  he. 

"  Hold  off !  unhand  me,  gray-beard  loon  ! " 

Eftsoons  his  hand  dropped  he. 


294  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

He  holds  him  with  his  glittering  eye  : 
The  wedding-guest  stood  still, 
And  listens  like  a  three-years'  child  : 
The  mariner  hath  his  will. 

The  wedding-guest  sat  on  a  stone ; 
He  can  not  choose  but  hear ; 
And  thus  spake  on  that  ancient  man, 
The  bright-eyed  mariner  :  — 

"  The  ship  was  cheered,  the  harbor  cleared  : 

Merrily  did  we  drop 

Below  the  kirk,  below  the  hill, 

Below  the  lighthouse  top. 

"  The  sun  came  up  upon  the  left ; 
Out  of  the  sea  came  he ; 
And  he  shone  bright,  and  on  the  right 
Went  down  into  the  sea. 

"  Higher  and  higher  every  day, 

Till  over  the  mast  at  noon  "  — 

The  wedding-guest  here  beat  his  breast ; 

For  he  heard  the  loud  bassoon. 

The  bride  hath  paced  into  the  hall  ; 
Red  as  a  rose  is  she  : 
Nodding  their  heads,  before  her  goes 
The  merry  minstrelsy. 

The  wedding-guest  he  beat  his  breast, 
Yet  he  can  not  choose  but  hear  ; 
And  thus  spake  on  that  ancient  man, 
The  bright-eyed  mariner  :  — 

"  And  now  the  storm-blast  came  ;  and  he 
Was  tyrannous  and  strong  : 
He  struck  with  his  o'ertaking  wings, 
And  chased  us  south  along. 

"  With  sloping  masts  and  dipping  prow, — 

As  who  pursued  with  yell  and  blow 

Still  treads  the  shadow  of  his  foe, 

And  forward  bends  his  head,  — 

The  ship  drove  fast ;  loud  roared  the  blast ; 

And  southward  aye  we  fled. 

"  And  now  there  came  both  mist  and  snow ; 

And  it  grew  wondrous  cold  ; 

And  ice  mast-high  came  floating  by, 

As  green  as  emerald. 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLEKIDGE.  295 

**  And  through  the  drifts  the  snowy  cliffs 
Did  send  a  dismal  sheen  : 
Nor  shapes  of  men  nor  beasts  we  ken,  — 
The  ice  was  all  between. 

"  The  ice  was  here,  the  ice  was  there, 

The  ice  was  all  around : 

It  cracked  and  growled,  and  roared  and  howled, 

Like  noises  in  a  swound. 

*'  At  length  did  cross  an  albatross; 
Thorough  the  fog  it  came  : 
As  if  it  had  been  a  Christian  soul, 
We  hailed  it  in  God's  name, 

4t  It  ate  the  food  it  ne'er  had  eat, 
And  round  and  round  it  flew  : 
The  ice  did  split  with  a  thunder-fit  ^ 
The  helmsman  steered  Us  through. 

"  And  .a  good  south  wind  sprung  «p  behind : 

The  albatross  did  follow, 

And  every  day,  for  food  or  play, 

Came  to  the  mariners'  hollo, 

"  In  mist  or  cloud,  on  mast  or  shroud, 

It  perched  for  vespers  nine  ; 

Whiles  all  the  night,  through  fog-smoke  white, 

Glimmered  the  white  moonshine." 

"  God  save  thee,  ancient  mariner, 
From  the  fiends  that  plague  thee  thus ! 
Why  look'st  thou  so  ?  "  —  "  With  my  cross-bow 
I  shot  the  albatross." 


E  sun  now  rose  upon  the  right: 
Out  of  the  sea  came  he, 
Still  hid  in  mist,  and  on  the  left 
Went  down  into  the  sea. 

"  And  the  good  south  wind  still  blew  behind; 
But  no  sweet  bird  did  follow, 
Nor  any  day,  for  food  or  play, 
Came  to  the  mariners'  hollo. 

"  And  I  had  dorve  a  hellish  thing, 

And  it  would  work  'em  woe  ; 

For  all  averred  I  had  killed  the  bird 

That  made  the  breeze  to  blow. 

1  Ah,  wretch  ! '  said  they,  '  the  bird  to  slay 

That  made  the  breeze  to  blow  j ' 


29G  ENGLISH  LJTEKATUKE, 

"  Nor  dim  nor  red,  like  God's  awn  head, 
The  glorions  sun  uprist : 
Then  all  averred  I  had  killed  the  bird 
That  brought  the  fog  and  mist. 
*  "Twas  right,'  said  they,  '  such  birds  to  slay- 
That  bring  the  fog  and  mist.' 

"  The  fair  breeze  blew,  the  while  foam  flew, 

The  furrow  followed  free  : 

We  were  the  first  that  ever  burst 

Into  that  silent  sea- 

"  Down  dropt  the  breeze  ;  the  sails  dropt  down ; 
'Twas  sad  as  sad  could  be  ; 
And  we  did  speak  only  to  break 
The  silence  of  the  sea. 

"  All  in  a  hot  and  copper  sky, 
The  bloody  sun,  at  noon, 
Right  up  above  the  mast  did  stand, 
No  bigger  than  the  moon. 

"  Day  after  day,  day  after  day, 
We  stuck,  nor  breath  nor  motion  ; 
As  idle  as  a  painted  ship 
Upon  a  painted  ocean. 


"  Water,  water,  everywhere ! 
And  all  the  boards  did  shrink  ; 
Water,  water,  everywhere  I 
Nor  any  drop  to  drink. 

"  The  very  deep  did  rot :  O  Christ, 
That  ever  this  should  be  ! 
Yea,  slimy  things  did  crawl  with  legs 
Upon  the  slimy  sea. 

"  About,  about,  in  reel  and  rout, 
The  death-fires  danced  at  night : 
The  waters,  like  a  witch's  oils, 
Burnt  green  and  blue  and  white. 

"  And  some  in  dreams  assured  were 
Of  the  spirit  that  plagued  us  so : 
Nine  fathom  deep  he  had  followed  us 
From  the  land  of  mist  and  snow. 

"  And  every  tongue,  through  utter  drought, 
Was  withered  at  the  root : 
We  could  not  speak  no  more  than  if 
We  had  been  choked  with  soot. 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE.          297 

"  Ah,  well  a-day  !  what  evil  looks 
Had  I  from  old  and  young  ! 
Instead  of  the  cross,  the  albatross 
About  my  neck  was  hung. 


"  The  naked  hulk  alongside  came  ; 
And  the  twain  were  casting  dice  : 
1  The  game  is  done  ;  I've  won,  I've  won  1 ' 
Quoth  she,  and  whistles  thrice. 

"  The  sun's  rim  dips  ;  the  stars  rush  out ; 
At  one  stride  comes  the  dark  : 
With  far-heard  whisper  o'er  the  sea, 
Off'  shot  the  specter-bark. 

"  We  listened,  and  looked  sideways  up : 

Fear  at  my  heart,  as  at  a  cup, 

My  life-blood  seemed  to  sip. 

The  stars  were  dim,  and  thick  the  night ; 

The  steersman's  face  by  his  lamp  gleamed  white ; 

From  the  sails  the  dew  did  drip  ; 

Till  clomb  above  the  eastern  bar 

The  horned  moon,  with  one  bright  star 

Within  the  nether  tip. 

"  One  after  one,  by  the  star-dogged  moon, 
Too  quick  for  groan  or  sigh, 
Each  turned  his  face  with  a  ghastly  pang, 
And  cursed  me  with  his  eye : 

"  Four  times  fifty  living  men, 
(And  I  heard  nor  sigh  nor  groan,) 
With  heavy  thump,  a  lifeless  lump, 
They  dropped  down  one  by  one. 

"  The  souls  did  from  their  bodies  fly ; 
They  fled  to  bliss  or  woe ; 
And  every  soul  it  passed  me  by 
Like  the  whizz  of  my  cross-bow." 


"  I  fear  thee,  ancient  mariner  ; 

I  fear  thy  skinny  hand  ; 

And  thou  art  long  and  lank  and  brown 

As  is  the  ribbed  sea-sand. 

"  I  fear  thee  and  thy  glittering  eye, 
And  thy  skinny  hand  so  brown." 
"  Fear  not,  fear  not,  thou  wedding-guest: 
This  body  dropped  not  down. 


298  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

"  Alone,  alone,  all,  all  alone,  — 
Alone  on  a  wide,  wide  sea  ! 
And  never  a  saint  took  pity  on 
My  soul  in  agony. 

"  The  many  men  so  beautiful !  — 
And  they  all  dead  did  lie  ; 
And  a  thousand  thousand  slimy  things 
Lived  on  ;  and  so  did  I. 

"  I  looked  upon  the  rotting  sea, 
And  drew  my  eyes  away  ; 
I  looked  upon  the  rotting  deck, 
And  there  the  dead  men  lay. 

"  I  looked  to  heaven,  and  tried  to  pray  ; 
But,  or  ever  a  prayer  had  gusht, 
A  wicked  whisper  came,  and  made 
My  heart  as  dry  as  dust. 

"  I  closed  my  lids,  and  kept  them  close, 

And  the  balls  like  pulses  beat ; 

For  the  sky  and  the  sea,  and  the  sea  an;l  the  sky, 

Lay  like  a  load  on  my  weary  eye ; 

And  the  dead  were  at  my  feet. 

"  The  cold  sweat  melted  from  their  limbs, 
Nor  rot  nor  reek  did  they  : 
The  look  with  which  they  looked  on  me 
Had  never  passed  away. 

"  An  orphan's  curse  would  drag  to  hell 

A  spirit  from  on  high  ; 

But,  oh  !  more  horrible  than  that 

Is  the  curse  in  a  dead  man's  eye. 

Seven  days,  seven  nights,  I  saw  that  curse ; 

And  yet  I  could  not  die. 

"  The  moving  moon  went  up  the  sky, 
And  nowhere  did  abide  ; 
Softly  she  was  going  up, 
And  a  star  or  two  beside. 

"  Her  beams  bcmocked  the  sultry  main 

Like  April  hoar-frost  spread  ; 

But,  where  the  ship's  huge  shadow  lay, 

The  charmed  water  burnt  alway 

A  still  and  awful  red. 

"  Beyond  the  shadow  of  the  ship 

I  watched  the  water-snakes  : 

They  moved  in  tracks  of  shining  white  ; 

And,  when  they  reared,  the  elfish  light 

Fell  off  in  hoary  flakes. 


SAMUEL  TAYLOE   COLERIDGE.  299 

"  Within  the  shadow  of  the  ship 

I  watched  their  rich  attire  : 

Blue,  glossy  green,  and  velvet  black, 

They  coiled  and  swam  ;  and  every  track 

Was  a  flash  of  golden  fire. 

"  O  happy,  living  things  !  no  tongue 

Their  beauty  might  declare  :   • 

A  spring  of  love  gushed  from  my  heart, 

And  I  blessed  them  unaware  : 

Sure,  my  kind  saint  took  pity  on  me, 

And  I  blessed  them  unaware. 

"The  self-same  moment  I  could  pray; 
And  from  my  neck  so  free 
The  albatross  fell  off,  and  sank 
Like  lead  into  the  sea." 


"  THIS  hermit  good  lives  in  that  wood 
Which  slopes  down  to  the  sea. 
How  loudly  his  sweet  voice  lie  rears  ! 
He  loves  to  talk  with  marineres 
That  come  from  a  far  countree. 

"  lie  kneels  at  morn  and  noon  and  eve  ; 

He  hath  a  cushion  plump  : 

It  is  the  moss  that  wholly  hides 

The  rotted  old  oak-stump. 

«  The  skiff-boat  neared  :  I  heard  them  talk : 
'  Why,  this  is  strange,  I  trow  ! 
Where  are  those  lights,  so  many  and  fair, 
That  signal  made  but  now  ?  ' 

" '  Strange,  by  my  faith  ! '  the  hermit  said; 

'  And  they  answered  not  our  cheer. 

The  planks  looked  warped;  and  see  those  sails, 

How  thin  they  are,  nnd  sear! 

I  never  saw  aught  like  to  them, 

Unless  perchance  it  were 

"  '  Brown  skeletons  of  leaves  that  lag 
My  forest-brook  along, 
When  the  ivy-tod  is  heavy  with  snow, 
And  the  owlet  whoops  to  the  wolf  below 
That  eats  the  she-wolfs  young.' 

"  '  Dear  Lord,  it  hath  a  fiendish  look,' 
(The  pilot  made  reply :) 
'  I  am  a-feared.'  —  '  Push  on,  push  on  !  ' 
Said  the  hermit  cheerily. 


300  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

"  The  boat  came  closer  to  the  ship, 
But  I  nor  spake  nor  stirred  : 
The  boat  came  close  beneath  the  ship, 
And  straight  a  sound  was  heard. 

"  Under  the  water  it  rumbled  on, 
Still  louder  and  more  dread  : 
It  reached  the  ship,  it  split  the  bay,  — 
The  ship  went  down  like  lead. 

"  Stunned  by  that  loud  and  dreadful  sound 

Which  sky  and  ocean  smote, 

Like  one  that  hath  been  seven  days  drowned, 

My  body  lay  afloat ; 

But,  swift  as  dreams,  myself  I  found 

Within  the  pilot's  boat. 

"  Upon  the  whirl,  where  sank  the  ship, 

The  boat  spun  round  and  round  ; 

And  all  was  still,  save  that  the  hill 

AVas  telling  of  the  sound. 

I  moved  my  lips,  —  the  pilot  shrieked, 

And  fell  down  in  a  fit ; 

The  holy  hermit  raised  his  eyes, 

And  prayed  where  he  did  sit. 

"  T  took  the  oars  :  the  pilot's  boy, 

Who  now  doth  crazy  go, 

Laughed  loud  and  long,  and  all  the  while 

His  eyes  went  to  and  fro. 

'  Ha,  ha ! '  quoth  he,  '  full  plain  I  see 

The  Devil  knows  how  to  row.' 

"  And  now,  all  in  my  own  countree, 
I  stood  on  the  firm  land  : 
The  hermit  stepped  forth  from  the  boat, 
And  scarcely  he  could  stand. 

"  '  Oh,  shrive  me,  shrive  me,  holy  man  ! ' 

The  hermit  crossed  his  brow. 

'  Say  quick,'  quoth  he,  *  I  bid  thee  say, 

What  manner  of  man  art  thou  ?  ' 

Forthwith  this  frame  of  mine  was  wrenched 

With  a  woful  agony 

Which  forced  me  to  begin  my  tale, 

And  then  it  left  me  free. 

"  Since  then,  at  an  uncertain  hour, 
That  airony  returns  : 
And,  till  my  ghastly  tale  is  told, 
This  Lueart  within  me  burns. 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR   COLERIDGE.  301 

"  I  pass,  like  night,  from  land  to  land  ; 
I  have  strange  power  of  speech  : 
That  moment  that  his  face  I  see, 
I  know  the  man  that  must  hear  me ; 
To  him  my  tale  I  teach. 

"  What  loud  uproar  bursts  from  that  door ! 
The  wedding- guests  are  there  ; 
But  in  the  garden-bower  the  bride 
And  bride-maids  singing  are  : 
And,  hark  !  the  little  vesper-bell, 
Which  biddeth  me  to  prayer  ! 

"  O  wedding-guest !  this  soul  hath  been 
Alone  on  a  wide,  wide  sea  : 
So  lonely  'twas,  that  God  himself 
Scarce  seemed  there  to  be. 

"  Oh  !  sweeter  than  the  marriage-feast, 

'Tis  sweeter  far  to  me, 

To  walk  together  to  the  kirk 

With  a  goodly  company ; 

"  To  walk  together  to  the  kirk, 

And  all  together  pray  ; 

While  each  to  his  great  Father  bends,  — - 

Old  men  and  babes,  and  loving  friends, 

And  youths  and  maidens  gay. 

"  Farewell,  farewell  !  but  this  I  tell 

To  thee,  thou  wedding-guest,  — 

He  prayeth  well  who  loveth  well 

Both  man  and  bird  and  beast. 

"  He  prayeth  best  who  loveth  best 
All  things,  both  great  and  small ; 
For  the  dear  God  who  loveth  us, 
He  made  and  loveth  all." 

The  mariner,  whose  eye  is  bright, 
Whose  beard  with  age  is  hoar, 
Is  gone  ;  and  now  the  wedding-guest 
Turned  from  the  bridegroom's  door. 

He  went  like  one  that  hath  been  stunned, 
And  is  of  sense  forlorn  : 
A  sadder  and  a  wiser  man 
He  rose  the  morrow  morn. 


HYMN 

BEFORE   SUNKISE  IN  THE   VALE   OF   CHAMOUNIX. 

HAST  thou  a  charm  to  stay  the  morning-star 
In  his  steep  course  ?     So  ion?  he  seems  to  pause 
On  thy  bald,  awful  head,  O  sovran  Blanc  1 


302  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

The  Arve  and  Arveiron  at  thy  br\sc 
Rave  ceaselessly  ;  but  thou,  most  awful  form, 
Risest  from  forth  thy  silent,  sea  of  pines 
Ho\v  silently  !     Around  thee  and  above 
Deep  is  the  air,  and  dark,  substantial,  black,  — 
An  ebon  mass  :  methinks  thou  piercest  it 
As  with  a  wedge  !     But,  when  I  look  again, 
It  is  thine  own  calm  home,  thy  crystal  shrine, 
Thv  habitation  from  eternity. 

0  dread  and  silent  mount !  I  gazed  upon  thee, 
Till  thou,  still  present  to  the  bodily  sense, 

Didst  vanish  from  my  thought :  entranced  in  prayer, 

1  worshipped  the  Invisible  alone. 

Yet  like  some  sweet,  beguiling  melody, 
So  sweet  we  know  not  we  are  listening  to  it, 
Thou,  the  meanwhile,  wast  blending  with  my  thought, 
Yea,  with  my  life  and  life's  own  secret  joy  ;* 
Till  the  dilating  soul,  in  wrapt,  transfused 
Into  the  mighty  vision  passing,  there, 
As  in  her  natural  tbrm,  swelled  vast  to  heaven. 

Awake,  my  soul !  not  only  passive  praise 
Thou  owest ;  not  alone  these  swelling  tears, 
Mute  thanks,  and  secret  ecstasy.     Awake, 
Voice  of  sweet  song  !     Awake,  my  heart,  awake  ! 
Green  vales  and  icy  cliffs,  all.  join  my  hymn ! 

Thou  first  and  chief,  sole  sovran  of  the  vale  ! 
Oh  !  struggling  with  the  darkness  all  the  night, 
And  visited  all  night  by  troops  of  stars. 
Or  when  they  climb  the  sky,  or  when  they  sink  ; 
Companion  of  the  morning-star  at  dawn, 
Thyself  earth's  rosy  star,  and  of  the  dawn 
Co-liL-rald,  —  wake,  oh  !  wake,  and  utter  praise  ! 
Who  sank  thy  sunless  pillars  deep  in  earth  ci 
Who  filled  thy  countenance  with  rosy  light  1 
Who  made  thee  parent  of  perpetual  streams  V 

And  you,  ye  five  wild  torrents  fiercely  glad  ! 
Who  called  you  forth  from  night  and  utter  death, 
From  dark  and  icy  caverns  called  you  forth, 
Down  those  precipitous,  black,  jag";e  1  rocks, 
For  ever  shattered,  and  the  same  for  ever  t 
Who  crave  you  your  invulnerable  life, 
Your  strength,  your  speed,  your  fury,  and  your  joy, 
Unceasing  thunder  and  eternal  foam  ? 
And  who  commanded  (and  the  silence  came), 
"  Here  let  the  billows  stiffen,  and  have  rest"  V 

Ye  icefalls  !  ye  that  from  the  mountain's  brow 
Adown  enormous  ravines  slope  amain  : 
Torrents,  methinks,  that  heard  a  mighty  voice, 


THOMAS   HOOD.  303 

And  stopped  at  once  amid  their  maddest  plunge,  — 
Motionless  torrents  !  silent  cataracts  ! 
Who  made  you  glorious  as  the  gates  of  heaven 
Beneath  the  keen  full  moon  ?     Who  bade  the  sun 
Clothe  you  with  rainbows  ?     Who,  with  living  flowers 
Of  loveliest  blue,  spread  garlands  at  your  feet  ? 
"God!"  let  the  torrents  like  a  shout  of  nations 
Answer  ;  and  let  the  ice-plains  echo,  "  God  !  " 
"  God  !  "  sing,  ye  meadow-stream?,  with  gladsome  voice  ; 
Ye  pine-groves,  with  your  soft  and  soul-like  sounds ; 
And  they,  too,  have  a  voice,  —  yon  piles  of  snow,  — 
And  in  their  perilous  fall  shall  thunder,  "  God !  " 

Ye  living  flowers  that  skirt  the  eternal  frost ; 
Ye  wild  goats  sporting  round  the  eagle's  nest ; 
Ye  eagles,  playmates  of  the  mountain-storm ; 
Ye  lightnings,  the  dread  arrows  of  the  clouds ; 
Ye  signs  and  wonders  of  the  element,  — 
Utter  forth  "  God ! "  and  fill  the  hills  with  praise  ! 

Thou  too,  hoar  mount !  with  thy  sky-pointing  peaks, 
Oft  from  whose  feet  the  avalanche,  unheard, 
Shoots  downward,  glittering  through  the  pure  serene 
Into  the  depth  of  clouds  that  veil  thy  breast, — 
Thou  too,  again,  stupendous  mountain  !   thou 
That,  as  I  raise  my  head,  awhile  bowed  low 
In  adoration,  upward  from  thy  base 
Slow  traveling  with  dim  eyes  suffused  with  tears, 
Solemnly  seemest,  like  a  vapory  cloud, 
To  rise  before  me,  —  rise,  oh !  ever  rise, 
Rise  like  a  cloud  of  incense  from  the  earth, 
Thou  kingly  spirit  throned  among  the  hills  ; 
Thou  dread  ambassador  from  earth  to  heaven : 
Great  hi erarch  !   tell  thou  the  silent  sky, 
And  tell  the  stars,  and  tell  yon  rising  sun, 
Earth,  with  her  thousand  voices,  praises  God. 


THOMAS    HOOD. 

1798-1845. 

This  distinguished  wit  and  humorist  had  the  remarkable  power  of  giving  a  pun 
the  dignity  of  wit.  "  Eugene  Aram's  Dream,"  •'  The  Song  of  the  Shirt,"  and  "  The 
Bridge  of  Sighs,"  prove  his  power  as  a  poet,  and  give  him  a  permanent  place  in  our 
literature. 


THE   SONG    OF    THE   SHIRT. 


finders  weary  and  worn, 
With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 
A  woman  sat  in  unwom-inly  rags, 
Plying  her  needle  and  thread. 


304  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 


Stitch,  stitch,  stitch, 

In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt ; 
An:l  still,  with  a  voice  of  dolorous  pitch, 

She  sang  the  "  Song  of  the  Shirt :  "  — 

"  "Work,  work,  work, 

While  the  cock  is  crowing  aloof; 
And  work,  work,  work, 

Till  the  stars  shine  through  the  roof  I 
It's,  oh  !  to  be  a  slave 

Along  with  the  barbarous  Turk, 
Where  woman  has  never  a  soul  to  save, 

If  THIS  is  Christian  work ! 

"  Work,  work,  work, 

Till  the  brain  begins  to  swim ; 
Work,  work,  work, 

Till  the  eyes  are  heavy  and  dim  ! 
Seam  and  gusset  and  band, 

Band  and  gusset  and  seam, 
Till  over  the  buttons  I  fall  asleep, 

And  se\v  them  on  in  my  dream ! 

"  0  men  with  sisters  dear ! 

O  men  with  mothers  and  wives  1 
It  is  not  linen  you're  wearing  out, 

But  human  creatures'  lives  I 
Stitch,  stitch,  stitch, 

In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt ; 
Sewing  at  once,  with  a  double  thread, 

A  SHROUD  as  well  as  a  shirt ! 

"  But  why  do  I  talk  of  Death, 

That  phantom  of  grisly  bone  ? 
I  hardly  fear  his  terrible  shape, 

It  seems  so  like  my  own ; 
It  seems  so  like  my  own, 

Because  of  the  fast  I  keep : 
O  God !  that  bread  should  be  so  dear, 

And  flesh  and  blood  so  cheap ! 

"  Work,  work,  work  : 

My  labor  never  flags. 
And  what  are  its  wages  ?  —  a  bed  of  straw, 

A  crust  of  bread,  and  rags  ; 
A  shattered  roof;   and  this  naked  floor ; 

A  table ;  a  broken  chair ; 
And  a  wall  so  blank,  my  shadow  I  thank 

For  sometimes  falling  there! 

"  Work,  work,  work, 

From  weary  chime  to  chime  ; 
Work,  work,  work, 

As  prisoners  work  for  crime ! 


THOMAS   HOOD.  305 

Band  and  gusset  and  seam, 

Seam  and  gusset  and  band, 
Till  the  heart  is  sick,  and  the  brain  benumbed, 

As  well  as  the  weary  hand. 

"  Work,  work,  work, 

In  the  dull  December  light ; 
And  work,  work,  work, 

When  the  weather  is  warm  and  bright ; 
While  underneath  the  eaves 

The  brooding  swallows  cling, 
As  if  to  show  me  their  sunny  backs, 

And  twit  me  with  the  spring. 

"  Oh  but  to  breathe  the  breath 

Of  the  cowslip  and  primrose  sweet, 
With  the  sky  above  my  head, 

And  the  grass  beneath  my  feet ! 
For  only  one  short  hour 

To  feel  as  I  used  to  feel, 
Before  I  knew  the  woes  of  want, 

And  the  walk  that  costs  a  meal ! 

"  Oh  but  for  one  short  hour, 

A  respite,  however  brief! 
No  blessed  leisure  for  love  or  hope, 

But  only  time  for  grief! 
A  little  weeping  would  ease  my  heart : 

But  in  their  briny  bed 
My  tears  must  stop ;  for  every  drop 

Hinders  needle  and  thread  !  " 

With  fingers  weary  and  worn, 

With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 
A  woman  sat,  in  unwomanly  rags, 

Plying  her  needle  and  thread ; 
Stitch,  stitch,  stitch, 

In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt ; 
And  still  with  a  voice  of  dolorous  pitch  — 
Would  that  its  tone  could  reach  the  rich !  — 

She  sang  this  "  Song  of  the  Shirt." 


THE    BRIDGE    OF    SIGHS. 

ONE  more  unfortunate, 
Weary  of  breath, 

Rashly  importunate, 
Gone  to  her  death  ! 

Take  her  up  tenderly, 
Lift  her  with  care, 

Fashioned  so  slenderly, 

Young,  and  so  fair  ! 
20 


306  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Look  at  her  garments, 
Clinging  like  cerements  ! 

Whilst  the  wave  constantly 
Drips  from  her  clothing : 

Take  her  up  instantly, 
Loving,  not  loathing. 

Touch  her  not  scornfully  ; 
Think  of  her  mournfully, 

Gently,  and  humanly ; 
Not  of  the  stains  of  her  : 
All  that  remains  of  her 

Now  is  pure  womanly. 

Make  no  deep  scrutiny 
Into  her  mutiny, 

Rash  and  undutiful : 
Past  all  dishonor, 
Death  has  left  on  her 

Only  the  beautiful. 

Still,  for  all  slips  of  hers,  — 
One  of  Eve's  family,  — 

Wipe  those  poor  lips  of  hers 
Oozing  so  clammily. 

Loop  up  her  tresses 

Escaped  from  the  comb,  — 
Her  fair  auburn  tresses  : 
Whilst  wonderment  guesses 
Where  was  her  home. 

Who  was  her  father  ? 

Who  was  her  mother  ? 

Had  she  a  sister  ? 

Had  she  a  brother  ? 

Or  was  there  a  dearer  one 
Still,  and  a  nearer  one 

Yet,  than  all  other  ? 

Alas  for  the  rarity 
Of  Christian  charity 

Under  the  sun ! 
Oh,  it  was  pitiful ! 
Near  a  whole  city-full, 

Home  she  had  none. 

Sisterly,  brotherly, 
Fatherly,  motherly, 

Feelings  had  changed : 
Love  by  harsh  evidence 
Thrown  from  its  eminence  ; 
Even  God's  providence 

Seeming  estranged. 


THOMAS  HOOD.  307 

Where  the  lamps  quiver 
So  far  in  the  river, 

With  many  a  light 
From  window  and  casement, 
From  garret  to  basement, 
She  stood  with  amazement, 

Houseless  by  night. 

The  bleak  wind  of  March 

Made  her  tremble  and  shiver ; 
But  not  the  dark  arch, 

Or  the  black  flowing  river : 
Mad  from  life's  history, 
Glad  to  death's  mystery 

Swift  to  be  hurled,  — 
Anywhere,  anywhere, 

Out  of  the  world  ! 

In  she  plunged  boldly, 
No  matter  how  coldly 

The  rough  river  ran  : 
Over  the  brink  of  it, 
Picture  it,  think  of  it, 

Dissolute  man  ! 
Lave  in  it,  drink  of  it, 

Then,  if  you  can  ! 
Take  her  up  tenderly, 

Lift  her  with  care, 
Fashioned  so  slenderly, 

Young,  and  so  fair! 

Ere  her  limbs  frigidly 
Stiffen  too  rigidly, 

Decently,  kindly, 
Smooth  and  compose  them  ; 
And  her  eyes  —  close  them,  • 

Staring  so  blindly  !  — 

Dreadfully  staring 

Through  muddy  impurity, 
As  when  with  the  daring 
Last  look  of  despairing 

Fixed  on  futurity. 

Perishing  gloomily, 
Spurred  by  contumely, 
Cold  inhumanity 
Burning  insanity 

Into  her  rest. 
Cross  her  hands  humbly, 
As  if  praying  dumbly, 

Over  her  breast. 


308  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Owning  her  weakness, 
'     Her  evil  behavior, 
And  leaving  with  meekness 
Her  sins  to  her' Saviour. 


A   PARENTAL    ODE    TO   MY  INFANT   SON. 

THOU  happy,  happy  elf! 
(But  stop ;  first  let  me  kiss  away  that  tear !) 

Thou  tiny  image  of  myself! 
(My  love,  he's  poking  peas  into  his  ear !) 

Thou  merry,  laughing  sprite, 

With  spirit  feather-light, 
Untouched  by  sorrow,  and  unsoiled  by  sin  ! 
(Good  heavens !  the  child  is  swallowing  a  pin  !) 

Thou  little  tricksy  Puck, 
With  antic  toys  so  funnily  bestuck, 
Light  as  the  singing  bird  that  wings  the  air ! 
(The  door,  the  door !  he'll  tumble  down  the  stair !) 

Thou  darling  of  thy  sire  ! 
(Why,  Jane,  he'll  set  his  pinafore  afire  !) 

Thou  imp  of  mirth  and  joy  ! 
In  love's  dear  chain  so  strong  and  bright  a  link ! 
Thou  idol  of  thy  parents  !     (Stop  the  boy ! 

There  goes  my  ink !) 

Thou  cherub,  but  of  earth ! 
Fit  playfellow  for  fays  by  moonlight  pale, 

In  harmless  sport  and  mirth  ! 
(The  dog  will  bite  him  if  he  pulls  its  tail ;) 

Thou  human  humming-bee,  extracting  honey 
From  every  blossom  in  the  world  that  blows, 

Singing  in  youth's  Elysium  ever  sunny ! 
(Another  tumble !  —  that's  his  precious  nose  !) 

Thy  father's  pride  and  hope, 
(He'll  break  the  mirror  with  that  skipping-rope  !) 
With  pure  heart  newly  stamped  from  Nature's  mint ! 

(Where  did  he  learn  that  squint  ?) 

Thou  young  domestic  love ! 
(He'll  have  that  jug  off  with  another  shove  !) 

Dear  nursling  of  the  hymeneal  nest! 

(Are  those  torn  clothes  his  best  ?) 

Little  epitome  of  man, 

(He'll  climb  upon  the  table ;  that's  his  plan  !) 
Touched  with  the  beauteous  tints  of  dawning  life ! 

(He's  got  a  knife  !) 

Thou  enviable  being ! 
No  storms,  no  clouds,  in  thy  blue  sky  foreseeing, 


THOMAS   CAMPBELL.  309 

Play  on,  play  on, 

My  elfin  John ! 

Toss  the  light  ball,  bestride  the  stick, 
(I  knew  so  many  cakes  would  make  him  sick  !) 
With  fancies  buoyant  as  the  thistle-down, 
Prompting  the  face  grotesque,  and  antic  brisk, 

With  many  a  lamb-like  frisk ; 
(He's  got  the  scissors,  snipping  at  your  gown  !) 

Thou  pretty  opening  rose  ! 

(Go  to  your  mother,  child,  and  wipe  your  nose  !) 
Balmy,  and  breathing  music  like  the  south ; 
(He  really  brings  my  heart  into  my  mouth  !) 
Fresh  as  the  morn,  and  brilliant  as"  its  star ; 
(I  wish  that  window  had  an  iron  bar !) 
Bold  as  the  hawk,  yet  gentle  as  the  dove. 
(I'll  tell  you  what,  my  love,  — 
1  can  not  write  unless  he's  sent  above !) 


THOMAS    CAMPBELL. 

1777-1844. 

Became  famous  at  the  age  of  twenty-two  as  the  author  of  "  Pleasures  of  Hope." 
"Gertrude  of  Wyoming,"  and  several*  familiar  pieces,  "  Hohenlinden,"  "Exile  of 
Erin,"  "Lord  Ullin's  Daughter,"  "The  Battle  of  the  Baltic,"  and  "Ye  Mariners 
of  England,"  are  all  noted  for  the  perfection  of  rhythm,  beauty,  and  force  of  ex- 
pression. 

PLEASURES    OF   HOPE. 


AT  summer  eve,  "when  heaven's  aerial  bow 
Spans  with  bright  arch  the  glittering  hills  below, 
WThy  to  yon  mountain  turns  the  musing  eye, 
Whose  sun-bright  summit  mingles  with  the  sky  ? 
Why  do  those  cliffs  of  shadowy  tint  appear 
More  sweet  than  all  the  landscape  smiling  near  ? 
'Tis  distance  lends  enchantment  to  the  view, 
And  robes  the  mountain  in  its  azure  hue. 
Thus,  with  delight,  we  linger  to  survey 
The  promised  joys  of  life's  unmeasured  way ; 
Thus,  from  afar,  each  dim-discovered  scene 
More  pleasing  seems  than  all  the  past  hath  been  ; 
And  every  form  that  Fancy  can  repair 
From  dark  oblivion  glows  divinely  there. 
What  potent  spirit  guides  the  raptured  eye 
To  pierce  the  shades  of  dim  futurity  ? 


310  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

Can  Wisdom  lend,  with  all  her  heavenly  power, 

The  pledge  of  Joy's  anticipated  hour? 

Ah,  no !  she  darkly  sees  the  fate  of  man, 

Her  dim  horizon  bounded  to  a  span  ; 

Or,  if  she  hold  an  image  to  the  view, 

'Tis  Nature  pictured  too  severely  true. 

With  thee,  sweet  Hope !  resides  the  heavenly  light 

That  pours  remotest  rapture  on  the  sight ; 

Thine  is  the  charm  of  life's  bewildered  way, 

That  calls  each  slumbering  passion  into  play : 

Waked  by  thy  touch,  1  see  the  sister  band, 

On  tiptoe  watching,  start  at  thy  command, 

And  fly  where'er  thy  mandate  bids  them  steer, — 

To  Pleasure's  path,  or  Glory's  bright  career. 

Primeval  Hope,  the  Aonian  Muses  say, 

When  Man  and  Nature  mourned  their  first  decay ; 

When  every  form  of  death,  and  every  woe, 

Shot  from  malignant  stars  to  earth  below ; 

When  Murder  bared  her  arm,  and  rampant  War 

Yoked  the  red  dragons  of  her  iron  car ; 

When  Peace  and-  Mercy,  banished  from  the  plain, 

Sprung  on  the  viewless  winds  to  heaven  again,  — 

All,  all  forsook  the  friendless,  guilty  mind ; 

But  Hope,  the  charmer,  lingered  still  behind. 

Thus,  while  Elijah's  burning  wheels  prepare 

From  Carmel's  hight  to  sweep  the  fields  of  air, 

The  prophet's  mantle,  ere  his  flight  began, 

Dropped  on  the  world  a  sacred  gift  to  man. 

Auspicious  Hope  !  in  thy  sweet  garden  grow 

Wreaths  for  each  toil,  a  charm  for  every  woe  : 

Won  by  their  sweets,  in  Nature's  languid  hour 

The  way-worn  pilgrim  seeks  thy  summer  bower : 

There,  as  the  wild  bee  murmurs  on  the  wing, 

What  peaceful  dreams  thy  handmaid  spirits  bring ! 

What  viewless  forms  the  ./Eolian  organ  play, 

And  sweep  the  furrowed  lines  of  anxious  thought  away ! 

Angel  of  Life !  thy  glittering  wings  explore 

Earth's  loneliest  bounds,  and  Ocean's  wildest  shore. 

Lo !  to  the  wintry  winds  the  pilot  yields 

His  bark  careering  o'er  unfathoined  fields  : 

Now  on  Atlantic  waves  he  rides  afar, 

Where  Andes,  giant  of  the  western  star, 

With  meteor  standard  to  the  winds  unfurled, 

Looks  from  his  throne  of  clouds  o'er  half  the  world. 

Now  far  he  sweeps  where  scarce  a  summer  smiles,  — 

On  Behring's  rocks,  or  Greenland's  naked  isles  : 

Cold  on  his  midnight  watch  the  breezes  blow 

From  wastes  that  slumber  in  eternal  snow, 

And  waft  across  the  waves'  tumultuous  roar 

The  wolf's  long  howl  from  Oonalaska's  shore. 

Poor  child  of  danger,  nursling  of  the  storm, 

Sad  are  the  woes  that  wreck  thy  manly  form ! 


THOMAS   CAMPBELL.  311 


Rocks,  waves,  and  winds  the  shattered  bark  delay : 
Thy  heart  is  sad,  thy  home  is  far  away. 
But  Hope  can  here  her  moonlight  vigils  keep, 
And  sing  to  charm  the  spirit  of  the  deep. 
Swift  as  yon  streamer  lights  the  starry  pole, 
Her  visions  warm  the  watchman's  pensive  soul : 
His  native  hills  that  rise  in  happier  climes, 
The  grot  that  heard  his  song  of  other  times, 
His  cottage-home,  his  bark  of  slender  sail, 
His  glassy  lake,  and  broomwood-blossomed  vale, 
Rush  on  his  thought :  he  sweeps  before  the  wind ; 
Treads  the  loved  shore  he  sighed  to  leave  behind ; 
Meets  at  each  step  a  friend's  familiar  face, 
And  flies  at  last  to  Helen's  long  embrace  ; 
Wipes  from  her  cheek  the  rapture-speaking  tear, 
And  clasps  with  many  a  sigh  his  children  dear : 
While,  long  neglected,  but  at  length  caressed, 
His  faithful  dog  salutes  the  smiling  guest, 
Points  to  the  master's  eyes  (where'er  they  roam) 
His  wistful  face,  and  whines  a  welcome  home. 
Friend  of  the  brave  !  in  peril's  darkest  hour, 
Intrepid  Virtue  looks  to  thee  for  power; 
To  thee  the  heart  its  trembling  homage  yields 
On  stormy  floods  and  carnage-covered  fields, 
When  front  to  front  the  bannered  hosts  combine, 
Halt  ere  they  close,  and  form  the  dreadful  line. 
When  all  is  still  on  Death's  devoted  soil, 
The  march-worn  soldier  mingles  for  the  toil : 
As  rings  his  glittering  tube,  he  lifts  on  high 
The  dauntless  brow  and  spirit-speaking  eye, 
Hails  in  his  heart  the  triumph  yet  to  come, 
And  hears  thy  stormy  music  in  the  drum. 
And  such  thy  strength-inspiring  aid  that  bore 
The  hardy  Byron  to  his  native  shore  : 
In  horrid  climes,  where  Chiloe's  tempests  sweep 
Tumultuous  murmurs  o'er  the  troubled  deep, 
*Twas  his  to  mourn  Misfortune's  rudest  shock, 
Scourged  by  the  winds,  and  cradled  on  the  rock ; 
To  wake  each  joyless  morn,  and  search  again 
The  famished  haunts  of  solitary  men, 
Whose  race,  unyielding  as  their  native  storm, 
Knows  not  a  trace  of  Nature  but  the  form : 
Yet,  at  thy  call,  the  hardy  tar  pursued, 
Pale,  but  intrepid,  sad,  but  unsubdued ; 
Pierced  the  deep  woods,  and,  hailing  from  afar 
The  moon's  pale  planet  and  the  northern  star, 
Paused  at  each  dreary  cry,  unheard  before, 
(Hyaenas  in  the  wild,  and  mermaids  on  the  shore;) 
Till,  led  by  thee  o'er  many  a  cliff  sublime, 
He  found  a  warmer  world,  a  milder  clime, 
A  home  to  rest,  a  shelter  to  defend, 
Peace  and  repose,  a  Briton  and  a  iriend. 


312  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Congenial  Hope !  thy  passion-kindling  power 

How  bright,  how  strong,  in  youth's  untroubled  hour! 

On  yon  proud  hight.  with  Genius  hand  in  hand, 

I  see  thee  light,  and  wave  thy  golden  wand. 

"  Go,  child  of  Heaven  !  "  (thy  winged  words  proclaim ;) 

"  'Tis  thine  to  search  the  boundless  fields  of  fame. 

Lo!  Newton,  priest  of  Nature,  shines  afar, 

Scans  the  wide  world,  and  numbers  every  star : 

Wilt  thou  with  him  mysterious  rites  apply, 

And  watch  the  shrine  with  wonder-beaming  eye  ? 

Yes :  thou  shalt  mark  with  magic  art  profound 

The  speed  of  light,  the  circling  march  of  sound ; 

"With  Franklin  grasp  the  lightning's  fiery  wing, 

Or  yield  the  lyre  of  heaven  another  string. 

The  Swedish  sage  admires  in  yonder  bowers 

His  winged  insects  and  his  rosy  flowers ; 

Calls  from  their  woodland  haunts  the  savage  train 

With  sounding  horn,  and  counts  them  on  the  plain : 

So  once,  at  Heaven's  command,  the  wanderers  caine 

To  Eden's  shade,  and  heard  their  various  name. 

Far  from  the  world,  in  yon  sequestered  clime, 

Slow  pass  the  sons  of  Wisdom,  more  sublime : 

Calm  as  the  fields  of  heaven,  his  sapient  eye 

The  loved  Athenian  lifts  to  realms  on  high,  — 

Admiring  Plato ;  on  his  spotless  page 

Stamps  the  bright  dictates  of  the  lather  sage  : 

'  Shall  Nature  bound  to  earth's  diurnal  span 

The  fire  of  God,  the  immortal  soul  of  man  V  ' 

Turn,  child  of  Heaven,  thy  rapture-lightened  eye 

To  Wisdom's  walks,  —  the  sacred  Nine  are  nigh  : 

Hark  !  from  bright  spires  that  gild  the  Delphian  hight, 

From  streams  that  wander  in  eternal  li^ht, 

Ranged  on  their  hill,  Harmonia's  daughters  swell 

The  mingling  tones  of  horn  and  harp  and  shell ; 

Deep  from  his  vaults  the  Loxian  murmurs  flow, 

And  Pythia's  awful  organ  peals  below. 

Beloved  of  Heaven !  the  smiling  Muse  shall  shed 

Her  moonlight  halo  on  thy  beauteous  head ; 

Shall  swell  thy  heart  to  rapture  unconfined, 

And  breathe  a  holy  madness  o'er  thy  mind. 

I  see  thee  roam  her  guardian  power  beneath, 

And  talk  with  spirits  on  the  midnight  heath ; 

Inquire  of  guilty  wanderers  whence  they  came, 

And  ask  each  blood-stained  form  his  earthly  name; 

Then  weave  in  rapid  verse  the  deeds  they  tell, 

And  read  the  trembling  world  the  tales  of  hell. 

When  Venus,  throned  in  clouds  of  rosy  hue, 

Flings  from  her  golden  urn  the  vesper-dew, 

And  bids  fond  man  her  glimmering  noon  employ, 

Sacred  to  love,  and  walks  of  tender  joy, 

A  milder  mood  the  goddess  shall  recall, 

And  soft  as  dew  thy  tones  of  music  fall ; 


THOMAS   CAMPBELL.  313 

While  Beauty's  deeply-pictured  smiles  impart 

A  pang  more  dear  than  pleasure  to  the  heart, 

Warm  as  thy  sighs  shall  flow  the  Lesbian  strain, 

And  plead  in  Beauty's  ear,  nor  plead  in  vain. 

Or  wilt  thou  Orphean  hymns  more  sacred  deem, 

And  steep  thy  song  in  Mercy's  mellow  stream ; 

To  pensive  drops  the  radiant  eye  beguile, 

(For  Beauty's  tears  are  lovelier  than  her  smile;) 

On  Nature's  throbbing  anguish  pour  relief, 

And  teach  impassioned  souls  the  joy  of  grief? 

Yes,  to  thy  tongue  shall  seraph-words  be  given, 

And  power  on  earth  to  plead  the  cause  of  heaven : 

The  proud,  the,  cold,  untroubled  heart  of  stone, 

That  never  mused  on  sorrow  but  its  own, 

Unlocks  a  generous  store  at  thy  command, 

Like  Horeb's  rocks  beneath  the  prophet's  hand. 

The  living  lumber  of  his  kindred  earth, 

Charmed  into  soul,  receives  a  second  birth ; 
Feels  thy  dread  power  another  heart  afford, 

Whose  passion-touched  harmonious  strings  accord, 
True  as  the  circling  spheres,  to  Nature's  plan ; 
And  man,  the  brother,  lives  the  friend  of  man  ! 
Bright  as  the  pillar  rose  at  Heaven's  command 
When  Israel  marched  along  the  desert  land, 
Blazed  through  the  night  on  lonely  wilds  afar, 

And  told  the  path,  —  a  never-setting  star : 

So,  heavenly  Genius,  in  thy  course  divine, 

Hope  is  thy  star;  her  light  is  ever  thine." 

Propitious  Power  !  when  rankling  cares  annoy 

The  sacred  home  of  hymenean  joy ; 

When,  doomed  to  Poverty's  sequestered  dell, 

The  wedded  pair  of  love  and  virtue  dwell, 

Unpitied  by  the  world,  unknown  to  fame, 

Their  woes,  their  wishes,  and  their  hearts  the  same, — 

Oh,  there,  prophetic  Hope  !  thy  smile  bestow, 

And  chase  the  pangs  that  worth  should  never  know  ; 

There,  as  the  parent  deals  his  scanty  store 

To  friendless  babes,  and  weeps  to  give  no  more, 

Tell,  that  his  manly  race  shall  yet  assuage 

Their  father's  wrongs,  and  shield  his  later  age. 

What  though  for  him  no  Hybla  sweets  distill, 

Nor  bloomy  vines  wave  purple  on  the  hill : 

Tell,  that  when  silent  years  have  passed  away, 

That  when  his  eyes  grow  dim,  his  tresses  gray, 

These  busy  hands  a  lovelier  cot  shall  build, 

And  deck  with  fairer  flowers  his  little  field, 

And  call  from  heaven  propitious  dews  to  breathe 

Arcadian  beauty  on  the  barren  heath ; 

Tell,  that  while  Love's  spontaneous  smile  endears 

The  days  of  peace,  the  sabbath  of  his  years, 

Health  shall  prolong  to  many  a  festive  hour 

The  social  pleasures  of  his  humble  bower. 


314  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Lo !  at  the  couch  where  infant  beauty  sleeps, 

Her  silent  watch  the  mournful  mother  keeps ; 

She,  while  the  lovely  babe  unconscious  lies, 

Smiles  on  her  slumbering  child  with  pensive  eyes, 

And  weaves  a  song  of  melancholy  joy  :  — 

"  Sleep,  image  of  thy  father,  sleep,  my  boy  ! 

No  lingering  hour  of  sorrow  shall  be  thine; 

No  sigh  that  rends  thy  father's  heart  and  mine : 

Bright  as  his  manly  sire,  the  son  shall  be 

In  form  and  soul ;  but,  ah !  more  blest  than  he, 

Thy  fame,  thy  worth,  thy  filial  love,  at  last, 

Shall  soothe  this  aching  heart  for  all  the  past ; 

With  many  a  smile  my  solitude  repay, 

And  chase  the  world's  ungenerous  scorn  away. 

And  say,  when,  summoned  from  the  world  and  thee, 

I  lay  my  head  beneath  the  willow-tree, 

Witt  ///oil,  sweet  mourner,  at  my  stone  appear, 

And  soothe  my  parted  spirit  lingering  near  V 

Oh  !  wilt  thou  come  at  evening-hour  to  shed 

The  tears  of  memory  o'er  my  narrow  bed ; 

With  aching  temples  on  thy  hand  reclined, 

Muse  on  the  last  farewell  I  leave  behind ; 

Breathe  a  deep  sigh  to  winds  that  murmur  low, 

And  think  on  all  my  love  and  all  my  woe  ?  " 

So  speaks  affection  ere  the  infant  eye 

Can  look  regard,  or  brighten  in  reply  ; 

But  when  the  cherub  lip  hath  learnt  to  claim 

A  mother's  ear  by  that  endearing  name, 

Soon  as  the  playful  innocent  can  prove 

A  tear  of  pity  or  a  smile  of  love, 

Or  cons  his  murmuring  task  beneath  her  care, 

Or  lisps  with  holy  look  his  evening  prayer, 

Or  gazing,  mutely  pensive,  sits  to  hear 

The  mournful  baflad  warbled  in  his  ear, 

How  fondly  looks  admiring  Hope  the  while 

At  every  artless  tear  and  every  smile ! 

How  glows  the  joyous  parent  to  descry 

A  guileless  bosom  true  to  sympathy  ! 

Where  is  the  troubled  heart,  consigned  to  share 

Tumultuous  toils  or  solitary  care, 

Unblest  by  visionary  thoughts  that  stray 

To  count  the  joys  of  Fortune's  better  day? 

Lo  !  nature,  life,  and  liberty  relume 

The  dim-eyed  tenant  of  the  dungeon  gloom  ; 

A  long-lost  friend,  or  hapless  child  restored. 

Smiles  at  his  blazing  hearth  and  social  bo;ird; 

Warm  from  his  heart  the  tears  of  rapture  Ho\v  ; 

And  virtue  triumphs  o'er  remembered  wo;-. 

Chide  not  his  peace,  proud  Reason,  nor  destroy 

The  shadowy  forms  of  uncreated  joy. 

That  urge  the  lingering  tide  of  life,  and  pour 

Spontaneous  slumber  on  his  midnight-hour. 


THOMAS  CAMPBELL.  315 

Hark !  the  wild  maniac  sing?,  to  chide  the  gale 

That  watts  so  slow  her  lover's  distant  sail ; 

She,  sad  spectatress,  on  the  wintry  shore 

Watched  the  rude  surge  his  shroudless  corse  that  bore, 

Knew  the  pale  form,  and,  shrieking  in  amaze, 

Clasped  her  cold  hands,  and  fixed  her  maddening  gaze : 

Poor  widowed  wretch !  'twas  there  she  wept  in  vain 

Till  memory  fled  her  agonizing  brain ; 

But  Mercy  gave,  to  charm  the  sense  of  woe, 

Ideal  peace  that  Truth  could  ne'er  bestow : 

Warm  on  her  heart  the  joys  of  Fancy  beam, 

And  aimless  Hope  delights  her  darkest  dream. 

Oft  when  yon  moon  has  climbed  the  midnight  sky, 

And  the  lone  sea-bird  wakes  its  wildest  cry, 

Piled  on  the  steep,  her  blazing  fagots  burn 

To  hail  the  bark  that  never  can  return  ; 

And  still  she  waits,  but  scarce  forbears  to  weep 

That  constant  love  can  linger  on  the  deep. 

And  mark  the  wretch,  whose  wanderings  never  knew 

The  world's  regard,  that  soothes,  though  half  untrue ; 

Whose  erring  heart  the  lash  of  sorrow  bore, 

But  found  not  pity  when  it  erred  no  more. 

Yon  friendless  man,  at  whose  dejected  eye 

The  unfeeling  proud  one  looks,  and  passes  by ; 

Condemned  on  Penury's  barren  path  to  roam, 

Scorned  by  the  world,  and  left  without  a  home,  — 

Even  he,  at  evening,  should  he  chance  to  stray 

Down  by  the  hamlet's  hawthorn-scented  way, 

Where  round  the  cot's  romantic  glade  are  seen 

The  blossomed  bean-field  and  the  sloping  green, 

Leans  o'er  its  humble  gate,  and  thinks  the  while,  — 

"  Oh  that  for  me  some  home  like  this  would  smile ; 

Some  hamlet  shade,  to  yield  my  sickly  form 

Health  in  the  breeze,  and  shelter  in  the  storm  ! 

There  should  my  hand  no  stinted  boon  assign 

To  wretched  hearts  with  sorrows  such  as  mine." 

That  generous  wish  can  soothe  unpitied  care ; 

And  Hope  half  mingles  with  the  poor  man's  prayer. 

Hope!  when  I  mourn  with  sympathizing  mind 

The  wrongs  of  fate,  the  woes  of  human  kind, 

Thy  blissful  omens  bid  my  spirit  see 

The  boundless  fields  of  rapture  yet  to  be ; 

I  watch  the  wheels  of  Nature's  mazy  plan, 

And  learn  the  future  by  the  past  of  man. 

Come,  bright  Improvement,  on  the  car  of  Time ! 

And  rule  the  spacious  world  from  clime  to  clime ; 

Thy  handmaid  arts  shall  every  wild  explore, 

Trace  every  wave,  and  culture  every  shore. 

On  P^rie's  banks,  where  tigers  steal  along, 

And  the  dread  Indian  chants  a  dismal  song ; 

Where  human  fiends  on  midnight  errands  walk, 

And  bathe  in  brains  the  murderous  tomahawk,  — 


316  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

There  shall  the  flocks  on  thymy  pasture  stray, 

And  shepherds  dance  at  Summer's  opening  day : 

Each  wandering  genius  of  the  lonely  glen 

Shall  start  to  view  the  glittering  haunts  of  men ; 

And  silent  watch,  on  woodland  nights  around, 

The  village  curfew  as  it  tolls  profound. 

In  Libyan  groves,  where  damned  rites  are  done, 

That  bathe  the  rocks  in  blood,  and  veil  the  sun, 

Truth  shall  arrest  the  murderous  arm  profane, 

Wild  Obi  flies,  —  the  veil  is  rent  in  twain. 

"Where  barbarous  hordes  on  Scythian  mountains  roam, 

Truth,  Mercy,  Freedom,  yet  shall  find  a  home ; 

Where'er  degraded  Nature  bleeds  and  pines, 

From  Guinea's  coast  to  Sibir's  dreary  mines, 

Truth  shall  pervade  the  unfathomed  darkness  there, 

And  light  the  dreadful  features  of  despair. 

Hark  !  the  stern  captive  spurns  his  heavy  load, 

And  asks  the  image  back  that  Heaven  bestowed : 

Fierce  in  his  eye  the  fire  of  valor  burns ; 

And,  as  the  slave  departs,  the  man  return?. 

O  sacred  Truth !  thy  triumph  ceased  a  while, 

And  Hope,  thy  sister,  ceased  with  thee  to  smile, 

When  leagued  Oppression  poured  to  northern  wars 

Her  whiskered  pandoors  and  her  fierce  hussars, 

Waved  her  dread  standard  to  the  breeze  of  morn, 

Pealed  her  loud  drum,  and  twanged  her  trumpet-horn : 

Tumultuous  horror  brooded  o'er  her  van, 

Presaging  wrath  to  Poland  and  to  man ! 

Warsaw's  last  champion  from  her  hight  surveyed, 

Wide  o'er  the  fields,  a  waste  of  ruin  laid : 

"  O  Heaven  !  "  he  cried,  "  my  bleeding  country  save ! 

Is  there  no  hand  on  high  to  shield  the  brave  '! 

Yet,  though  destruction  sweep  these  lovely  plains, 

Rise,  fellow-men  !  our  country  yet  remains. 

By  that  dread  name  we  wave  the  sword  on  high, 

And  swear  for  her  to  live,  with  her  to  die." 

He  said,  and  on  the  rampart-bights  arrayed 

His  trusty  warriors,  few,  but  undismayed  : 

Firm-paced  and  slow,  a  horrid  front  they  form, 

Still  as  the  breeze,  but  dreadful  as  the  storm ; 

Low  murmuring  sounds  along  their  banners  fly, 

Revenge,  or  death,  the  watchword  and  reply  : 

Then  pealed  the  notes,  omnipotent  to  charm, 

And  the  loud  tocsin  tolled  their  last  alarm. 

In  vain,  alas  !  in  vain,  ye  gallant  few  ! 

From  rank  to  rank  your  volleyed  thunder  flew : 

Oh  !  bloodiest  picture  in  the  book  of  Time,  — 

Sarmatia  fell,  unwept,  without  a  crime  ; 

Found  not  a  generous  friend,  a  pitying  foe, 

Strength  in  her  arms,  nor  mercy  in  her  woe ; 

Dropped  from  her  nerveless  grasp  the  shattered  spear, 

Closed  her  bright  eye,  and  curbed  her  high  career  : 


THOMAS   CAMPBELL.  317 

Hope,  for  a  season,  bade  the  world  farewell ; 

And  Freedom  shrieked  as  KOSCIUSKO  fell ! 

The  sun  went  down,  nor  ceased  the  carnage  there ; 

Tumultuous  murder  shook  the  midnight  air; 

On  Prague's  proud  arch  the  fires  of  ruin  glow, 

His  blood-dyed  waters  murmuring  far  below ; 

The  storm  prevails,  the  rampart  yields  away, 

Bursts  the  wild  cry  of  horror  and  dismay ! 

Hark !  as  the  smoldering  piles  with  thunder  fall, 

A  thousand  shrieks  for  hopeless  mercy  call. 

Earth  shook  ;  red  meteors  flashed  along  the  sky ; 

And  conscious  Nature  shuddered  at  the  cry. 

O  righteous  Heaven  !  ere  Freedom  found  a  grave, 

Why  slept  the  sword,  omnipotent  to  save  ? 

Where  was  thine  arm,  O  Vengeance  !  where  thy  rod, 

That  smote  the  foes  of  Zion  and  of  God  ; 

That  crushed  proud  Ammon,  when  his  iron  car 

Was  yoked  in  wrath,  and  thundered  from  afar  ? 

Where  was  the  storm  that  slumbered  till  the  host 

Of  blood-stained  Pharaoh  left  their  trembling  coast ; 

Then  bade  the  deep  in  wild  commotion  flow, 

And  heaved  an  ocean  on  their  march  below  ? 

Departed  spirits  of  the  mighty  dead, 

Ye  that  at  Marathon  and  Leuctra  bled, 

Friends  of  the  world  !  restore  your  swords  to  man, 

Fight  in  his  sacred  cause,  and  lead  the  van ! 

Yet  for  Sarmatia's  tears  of  blood  atone, 

And  make  her  arm  puissant  as  your  own  ! 

Oh  !  once  again  to  Freedom's  cause  return 

The  patriot  TELL,  the  BRUCE  of  BANNOCKBURN  1 

Yes,  thy  proud  lords,  unpitied  land,  shall  see 

That  man  hath  yet  a  soul,  and  dare  be  free. 

A  little  while,  along  thy  saddening  plains, 

The  starless  night  of  desolation  reigns : 

Truth  shall  restore  the  light  by  Nature  given, 

And,  like  Prometheus,  bring  the  fire  of  heaven. 

Prone  to  the  dust  Oppression  shall  be  hurled  ; 

Her  name,  her  nature,  withered  from  the  world. 

Ye  that  the  rising  morn  invidious  mark, 

And  hate  the  light,  because  your  deeds  are  dark ; 

Ye  that  expanding  truth  invidious  view,        ; 

And  think  or  wish  the  song  of  Hope  untrue,  — 

Perhaps  your  little  hands  presume  to  span 

The  march  of  genius  and  the  powers  of  man ; 

Perhaps  ye  watch  at  Pride's  unhallowed  shrine 

Her  victims  newly  slain,  and  thus  divine  :  — 

"  Here  shall  thy  triumph,  Genius,  cease  ;  and  here 

Truth,  Science,  Virtue,  close  your  short  career." 

Tyrants  !  in  vain  ye  trace  the  wizard  ring ; 

In  vain  ye  limit  Mind's  unwearied  spring : 

What !  can  ye  lull  the  winged  winds  asleep, 

Arrest  the  rolling  world,  or  chain  the  deep  ? 


318  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

No :  the  wild  wave  contemns  your  sceptered  hand ; 

It  rolled  not  back  when  Canute  gave  command. 

Man,  can  thy  doom  no  brighter  soul  allow  ? 

Still  must  thou  live  a  blot  on  Nature's  brow? 

Shall  War's  polluted  banner  ne'er  be  furled? 

Shall  crimes  and  tyrants  cease  but  with  the  world  ? 

What !  are  thy  triumphs,  sacred  Truth,  belied  ? 

Why,  then,  hath  Plato  lived,  or  Sidney  died  ? 

Ye  fond  adorers  of  departed  fame, 

Who  warm  at  Scipio's  worth  or  Tully's  name ; 

Ye  that  in  fancied  vision  can  admire 

The  sword  of  Brutus  and  the  Theban  lyre ; 

Rapt  in  historic  ardor,  who  adore 

Each  classic  haunt  and  well-remembered  shore, 

Where  Valor  tuned  amid  her  chosen  throng 

The  Thracian  trumpet  and  the  Spartan  song  ; 

Or,  wandering  thence,  behold  the  later  charms 

Of  England's  glory  and  Helvetia's  arms,  — 

See  Roman  fire  in  Hampden's  bosom  swell, 

And  fate  and  freedom  in  the  shaft  of  Tell ! 

Say,  ye  fond  zealots  to  the  worth  of  yore, 

Hath  Valor  left  the  world,  to  live  no  more  ? 

No  more  shall  Brutus  bid  a  tyrant  die, 

And  sternly  smile  with  vengeance  in  his  eye  ? 

Hainpden  no  more,  when  suffering  Freedom  calls, 

Encounter  fate,  and  triumph  as  he  falls  ? 

Nor  Tell  disclose  through  peril  and  alarm 

The  might  that  slumbers  in  a  peasant's  arm  ? 

Yes,  in  that  generous  cause  for  ever  strong, 

The  patriot's  virtue  and  the  poet's  song, 

Still,  as  the  tide  of  ages  rolls  away, 

Shall  charm  the  world,  unconscious  of  decay. 

Yes,  there  are  hearts,  prophetic  Hope  may  trust, 

That  slumber  yet  in  uncreated  dust, 

Ordained  to  fire  the  adoring  sons  of  earth 

With  every  charm  of  wisdom  and  of  worth ; 

Ordained  to  light  with  intellectual  day 

The  mazy  wheels  of  Nature  as  they  play ; 

Or,  warm  with  Fancy's  energy,  to  glow, 

And  rival  all  but  Shakspeare's  name  below. 

And  say,  supernal  Powers !  who  deeply  scan 

Heaven's  dark  decrees,  unfathomed  yet  by  man, 

When  shall  the  world  call  down,  to  cleanse  her  shame, 

That  embryo  spirit,  yet  without  a  name, — 

That  friend  of  Nature,  whose  avenging  hands 

Shall  burst  the  Libyan's  adamantine  bands  ? 

Who,  sternly  marking  on  his  native  soil 

The  blood,  the  tears,  the  anguish,  and  the  toil, 

Shall  bid  each  righteous  heart  exult  to  see 

Peace  to  the  slave,  and  vengeance  on  the  free  ? 

Yet,  yet,  degraded  men  !  the  expected  day 

That  breaks  your  bitter  cup  is  far  away ; 


THOMAS   CAMPBELL.  319 

Trade,  wealth,  and  fashion,  ask  you  still  to  bleed ; 

And  holy  men  give  Scripture  for  the  deed. 

Scourged  and  debased,  no  Briton  stoops  to  save 

A  wretch,  a  coward  ;  yes,  because  a  slave  ! 

Eternal  Nature  1  when  thy  giant  hand 

Had  heaved  the  floods,  and  fixed  the  trembling  land; 

When  Life  sprang  startling  at  thy  plastic  call, 

Endless  her  forms,  and  man  the  lord  of  all,  — 

Say,  was  that  lordly  form  inspired  by  thee 

To  wear  eternal  chains,  and  bow  the  knee  ? 

Was  man  ordained  the  slave  of  man  to  toil, 

Yoked  with  the  brutes,  and  fettered  to  the  soil ; 

Weighed  in  a  tyrant's  balance  with  his  gold  ? 

No !  Nature  stamped  us  in  a  heavenly  mold  : 

She  bade  no  wretch  his  thankless  labor  urge, 

Nor,  trembling,  take  the  pittance  and  the  scourge ; 

No  homeless  Libyan  on  the  stormy  deep 

To  call  upon  his  country's  name,  and  weep. 

Lo !  once  in  triumph  on  his  boundless  plain 

The  quivered  chief  of  Congo  lo'ved  to  reign  ; 

With  fires  proportioned  to  his  native  sky, 

Strength  in  his  arm,  and  lightning  in  his  eye ; 

Scoured  with  wild  feet  his  sun-illumined  zone, 

The  spear,  the  lion,  and  the  woods  his  own ; 

Or  led  the  combat,  bold  without  a  plan, 

An  artless  savage,  but  a  fearless  man. 

The  plunderer  came.     Alas !  no  glory  smiles 

For  Congo's  chief  on  yonder  Indian  isles ; 

For  ever  fallen  !  no  son  of  Nature  now, 

With  Freedom  chartered  on  his  manly  brow ! 

Faint,  bleeding,  bound,  he  weeps  the  night  away, 

And,  when  the  sea-wind  wafts  the  dewless  day, 

Starts,  with  a  bursting  heart,  for  ever  more 

To  curse  the  sun  that  lights  their  guilty  shore. 

The  shrill  horn  blew :  at  that  alarum-knell 

His  guardian  angel  took  a  last  farewell. 

That  funeral  dirge  to  darkness  hath  resigned 

The  fiery  grandeur  of  a  generous  mind. 

Poor  fettered  man  !  I  hear  thee  whispering  low 

Unhallowed  vows  to  Guilt,  the  child  of  Woe. 

Friendless  thy  heart;  and  canst  thou  harbor  there 

A  wish  but  death,  a  passion  but  despair  ? 

The  widowed  Indian,  when  her  lord  expires, 

Mounts  the  dread  pile,  and  braves  the  funeral-fires : 

So  falls  the  heart  at  Thralldom's  bitter  sigh ! 

So  Virtue  dies,  the  spouse  of  Liberty ! 

But  not  to  Libya's  barren  climes  alone, 

To  Chili,  or  the  wild  Siberian  zone, 

Belong  the  wretched  heart  and  haggard  eye, 

Degraded  worth,  and  poor  misfortune's  sigh. 

Ye  Orient  realms  where  Ganges'  waters  run, 

Prolific  fields,  dominions  of  the  sun, 


320  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

How  long  your  tribes  have  trembled,  and  obeyed  ! 
How  long  was  Timur's  iron  scepter  swayed, 
Whose  marshaled  hosts,  the  lions  of  the  plain, 
From  Scythia's  northern  mountains  to  the  main 
Raged  o'er  your  plundered  shrines  and  altars  bare 
With  blazing  torch  and  gory  cimeter ; 
Stunned  with  the  cries  of  death  each  gentle  gale, 
And  bathed  in  blood  the  verdure  of  the  vale ! 
Yet  could  no  pangs  the  immortal  spirit  tame 
When  Brahma's  children  perished  for  his  name  : 
The  martyr  smiled  beneath  avenging  power, 
And  brayed  the  tyrant  in  his  torturing  hour. 
When  Europe  sought  your  subject  realms  to  gain, 
And  stretched  her  giant  scepter  o'er  the  main, 
Taught  her  proud  barks  their  winding  way  to  shape, 
And  braved  the  stormy  spirit  of  the  Cape, — 
Children  of  Brahma !  then  was  Mercy  nigh 
To  wash  the  stain  of  blood's  eternal  dye  V 
Did  Peace  descend  to  triumph  and  to  save 
When  free-born  Britons  crossed  the  Indian  wave  ? 
Ah,  no !  to  more  than  Rome's  ambition  true, 
The  nurse  of  Freedom  gave  it  not  to  you  : 
She  the  bold  route  of  Europe's  guilt  began, 
And  in  the  march  of  nations  led  the  van. 
Rich  in  the  gems  of  India's  gaudy  zone, 
And  plunder  piled  from  kingdoms  not  their  own, 
Degenerate  Trade  !  thy  minions  could  despise 
The  heart-born  anguish  of  a  thousand  cries ; 
Could  lock  with  impious  hands  their  teeming  store, 
While  famished  nations  died  along  the  shore  ; 
Could  mock  the  groans  of  fellow-men,  and  bear 
The  curse  of  kingdoms  peopled  with  despair ; 
Could  stamp  disgrace  on  man's  polluted  name, 
And  barter  with  their  gold  eternal  shame  ! 
•  But,  hark !  as  bowed  to  earth  the  Brahmin  kneels, 
From  heavenly  climes  propitious  thunder  peals  ! 
Of  India's  fate  her  guardian  spirits  tell, 
Prophetic  murmurs  breathing  on  the  shell ; 
And  solemn  sounds,  that  awe  the  listening  mind, 
Roll  on  the  azure  paths  of  every  wind. 
"  Foes  of  mankind,"  her  guardian  spirits  say, 
"  Revolving  ages  bring  the  bitter  day 
When  Heaven's  unerring  arm  shall  fall  on  you, 
And  blood  for  blood  these  Indian  plains  bedew  : 
Nine  times  have  Brahma's  wheels  of  lightning  hurled 
His  awful  presence  o'er  the  alarmed  world ; 
Nine  times  hath  Guilt,  through  all  his  giant  frame, 
Convulsive  trembled  as  the  Mighty  came ; 
Nine  times  hath  suffering  Mercy  spared  in  vain ; 
But  Heaven  shall  burst  her  starry  gates  again. 
He  comes  !  dread  Brama  shakes  the  sunless  sky 
With  murmuring  wrath,  and  thunders  from  on  high  I 


THOMAS  BABINGTON   MACAULAY.  321 

Heaven's  fiery  horse,  beneath  his  warrior  form, 
Paws  the  light  clouds,  and  gallops  on  the  storm  ! 
Wide  waves  his  flickering  sword ;  his  bright  arms  glow 
Like  summer  suns,  and  light  the  world  below : 
Earth  and  her  trembling  isles  in  Ocean's  bed 
Are  shook,  and  Nature  rocks  beneath  his  tread ! 
To  pour  redress  on  India's  injured  realm, 
The  oppressor  to  dethrone,  the  proud  to  whelm ; 
To  chase  destruction  from  her  plundered  shore 
With  arts  and  arms  that  triumphed  once  before,  — 
The  tenth  Avatar  comes !  at  Heaven's  command 
Shall  Seriswattee  wave  her  hallowed  wand ; 
And  Camdeo  bright,  and  Ganesa  sublime, 
Shall  bless  with  joy  their  own  propitious  clime. 
Come,  Heavenly  Powers !  primeval  peace  restore  I 
Love,  Mercy,  Wisdom,  rule  for  ever  more  I  " 


THOMAS   BABINGTON   MACAULAY. 

1800-1859. 

The  most  celebrated  English  essayist  and  historian  of  the  nineteenth  century. 
As  a  descriptive  poet,  his  "Lays  of  Ancient  Rome,"  written  in  the  ballad  style,  and 
celebrating  events  in  the  early  history  of  Rome,  give  him  a  permanent  place  in  the 
literature  of  the  language,  the  first  and  second  volumes  of  "  The  History  of  Eng- 
land "  were  published  in  1849;  the  third  and  fourth,  in  1855;  and  a  fifth,  after  his 
death,  made  up  from  unfinished  manuscripts,  in  1861.  All  his  writings  are  no  less 
remarkable  for  brilliancy  of  style  than  for  the  profound  learning  they  display. 


THE  PROPHECY  OF  CAPY8. 

A  LAY  SUNG  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  THE  CITY  479. 
1. 

Now  slain  is  King  Amulius, 

Of  the  great  Sylvian  line, 
Who  reigned  in  Alba  Lon^a, 

On  the  throne  of  Aventine. 
Slain  is  the  Pontiff  Gamers, 

Who  spake  the  words  of  doom : 
"  The  children  to  the  Tiber  ; 

The  mother  to  the  tomb  !  " 

2. 

In  Alba's  lake  no  fisher 
His  net  to-day  is  flinging  ; 

On  the  dark  rind  of  Alba's  oaks 
To-day  no  axe  is  ringing  : 
21 


322  ENGLISH  LITER ATUEE. 

The  yoke  hangs  o'er  the  manger ; 

The  scythe  lies  in  the  hay  : 
Through  all  the  Alban  villages 

No  work  is  done  to-day. 

3. 

And  every  Alban  burgher 

Hath  donned  his  whitest  gown ; 
And  every  head  in  Alba 

Weareth  a  poplar  crown  ; 
And  every  Alban  door-post 

With  boughs  and  flowers  is  gay  : 
For  to-day  the  dead  are  living  ; 

The  lost  are  found  to-day. 

4. 

They  were  doomed  by  a  bloody  king ; 

They  were  doomed  by  a  lying  priest ; 
They  were  cast  on  the  raging  flood  ; 

They  were  tracked  by  the  raging  beast : 
Raging  beast  and  raging  flood 

Alike  have  spared  the  prey ; 
And  to-day  the  dead  are  living ; 

The  lost  are  found  to-day. 


5. 

The  troubled  river  knew  them, 

And  smoothed  his  yellow  foam, 
And  gently  rocked  the  cradle 

That  bore  the  fate  of  Rome ; 
The  ravening  she -wolf  knew  them, 

And  licked  them  o'er  and  o'er, 
And  gave  them  of  her  own  fierce  milk, 

Rich  with  raw  flesh  and  gore. 
Twenty  winters,  twenty  springs, 

Since  then  have  rolled  away : 
And  to-day  the  dead  are  living  ; 

The  lost  are  found  to-day. 


6. 

Blithe  it  was  to  see  the  twins, 

Right  goodly  youths  and  tall, 
Marching  from  Alba  Longa 

To  their  old  grandsire's  hall. 
Along  their  path  fresh  garlands 

Are  hung  from  tree  to  tree ; 
Before  them  stride  the  pipers, 

Piping  a  note  of  glee. 


THOMAS  BABINGTON  MACAULAY.  323 


7. 


On  the  right  goes  Romulus, 

With  arms  to  the  elbows  red  ; 
And  in  his  hand  a  broadsword, 

And  on  the  blade  a  head,  — 
A  head  in  an  iron  helmet, 

With  horse-hair  hanging  down,  • 
A  shaggy  head,  a  swarthy  head, 

Fixed  in  a  ghastly  frown,  — 
The  head  of  King  Amulius, 

Of  the  great  Sylvian  line, 
Who  reigned  in  Alba  Longa, 

On  the  throne  of  Aventine. 


8. 

On  the  left  side  goes  Remus, 

With  wrists  and  fingers  red  ; 
And  in  his  hand  a  boar-spear, 

And  on  the  point  a  head,  — 
A  wrinkled  head  and  aged, 

With  silver  beard  and  hair, 
And  holy  fillets  round  it, 

Such  as  the  pontiffs  wear,  — 
The  head  of  aneient  Gamers, 

Who  spake  the  words  of  doom 
«  The  children  to  the  Tiber ; 

The  mother  to  the  tomb !  " 


9. 

Two  and  two  behind  the  twins 

Their  trusty  comrades  go,  — 
Four  and  forty  valiant  men, ' 

With  club  and  ax  and  bow. 
On  each  side,  every  hamlet 

Pours  forth  its  joyous  crowd,  — 
Shouting  lads  and  baying  dogs, 

And  children  laughing  loud, 
And  old  men  weeping  fondly 

As  Rhea's  boys  go  by, 
And  maids  who  shriek  to  see  the  heads, 

Yet,  shrieking,  press  more  nigh. 


10. 

So  they  marched  along  the  lake  : 
They  marched  by  fold  and  stall, 

By  cornfield  and  by  vineyai?d, 
Unto  the  old  man's  hall. 


324  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

11. 

In  the  hall-gate  sate  Capys,  — 

Capys,  the  sightless  seer  : 
From  head  to  foot  he  trembled 

As  Romulus  drew  near. 
And  up  stood  stiff  his  thin  white  hair  ; 

And  his  blind  eyes  flashed  fire  : 
"  Hail  !  foster-child  of  the  wondrous  nurse  ! 

Hail  !  son  of  the  wondrous  sire  ! 

12. 

"  But  thou  —  whnt  dost  thou  here 

In  the  old  man's  peaceful  hall  ? 
What  doth  the  eagle  in  the  coop  ? 

The  bison  in  the  stall  ? 
Our  corn  fills  many  a  garner  ; 

Our  vines  clasp  many  a  tree  ; 
Our  flocks  are  white  on  many  a  hill  : 

But  these  are  not  for  thee. 

13. 

"  For  thee  no  treasure  ripens 

In  the  Tartessian  mine  ; 
For  thee  no  ship  brings  precious  bales 

Across  the  Libyan  brine  : 
Thou  shalt  not  drink  from  Amber  ; 

Thou  shalt  not  rest  on  down  ; 
Arabia  shall  not  steep  thy  locks, 

Nor  Sidon  tinge  thy  gown. 

14. 

"  Leave  gold  and  myrrh  and  jewels, 

Rich  table  and  soft  bed, 
To  them  who  of  man's  seed  are  born, 

Whom  woman's  milk  has  fed. 
Thou  wast  not  made  for  lucre, 

For  pleasure,  nor  for  rest,  — 
Thou  that  art  sprung  from  the  War-God's  loins, 

And  hast  tued  at  the  she-wolf's  breast. 


15. 

"  From  sunrise  unto  sunset, 

All  earth  shall  hear  thy  fame  : 
A  glorious  city  thou  shalt  build, 

And  name  it  by  thy  name  ; 
And  there,  unquenched  through  ages, 

Like  Vesta's  sacred  fire, 
Shall  live  the  spirit  of  thy  nurse, 

The  spirit  of  thy  sire. 


THOMAS   BABINGTON  MACAULAY.  325 


16. 

"  The  ox  toils  through  the  farrow, 

Obedient  to  the  goad  ; 
The  patient  ass,  up  flinty  paths, 

Plods  with  his  weary  load ; 
With  whine  and  bound,  the  spaniel 

His  master's  whistle  hears ; 
And  the  sheep  yields  her  patiently 

To  the  loud-clashing  shears. 

17. 

"  But  thy  nurse  will  hear  no  master, 

Thy  nurse  will  bear  no  load; 
And  woe  to  them  that  shear  her ! 

And  woe  to  them  that  goad  ! 
When  all  the  pack,  loud  baying, 

Her  bloody  lair  surrounds, 
She  dies  in  silence,  biting  hard 

Amidst  the  dying  hounds. 

18. 

"  Pomona  loves  the  orchard  ; 

And  Liber  loves  the  vine  ; 
And  Pales  loves  the  straw-built  shed 

Warm  with  the  breath  of  kine  ; 
And  Venus  loves  the  whispers 

Of  plighted  youth  and  maid, 
In  April's  ivory  moonlight 

Beneath  the  chestnut-shade. 

19. 

"  But  thy  father  loves  the  clashing 

Of  broadsword  and  of  shield  ; 
He  loves  to  drink  the  steam  that  reeks 

From  the  fresh  battle-field  : 
He  smiles  a  smile  more  dreadful 

Than  his  own  dreadful  frown 
When  he  sees  the  thick  black  cloud  of  smoko 

Go  up  from  the  conquered  town. 

20. 

"  And  such  as  is  the  War-God, 

The  author  of  thy  line ; 
And  such  as  she  who  suckled  thee,  — 

Even  such  be  thou  and  thine. 
Leave  to  the  soft  Campanian 

His  baths  and  his  perfumes  ; 
Leave  to  the  sordid  race  of  Tyre 

Their  dyeing-vats  and  looms  ; 


326  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

Leave  to  the  sons  of  Carthage 
The  rudder  and  tbe  oar  ; 

Leave  to  the  Greek  his  marble  nymphs, 
And  scrolls  of  wordy  lore. 

21. 

"  Thine,  Roman,  is  the  pilum ; 

Roman,  the  sword  is  thine, 
The  even  trench,  the  bristling  mound, 

The  legion's  ordered  line ; 
And  thine  the  wheels  of  triumph, 

Which,  with  their  laureled  train, 
Move  slowly  up  the  shouting  streets 

To  Jove's  eternal  fane. 

22. 

"  Beneath  thy  yoke,  the  Volscian 

Shall  veil  his  lofty  brow  ; 
Soft  Capua's  curled  revelers 

Before  thy  chairs  shall  bow  ; 
The  Lucumoes  of  Arnus 

Shall  quake  thy  rods  to  see  ; 
And  the  proud  Samnite's  heart  of  steel 

Shall  yield  to  only  thee. 

23. 

"  The  Gaul  shall  come  against  thee 
From  the  land  of  snow  and  night : 

Thou  shalt  give  his  fair-haired  armies 
To  the  raven  and  the  kite. 

24. 

"  The  Greek  shall  come  against  thee, 

The  conqueror  of  the  East : 
Beside  him  stalks  to  battle 

The  huge,  earth-shaking  beast,  — 
The  beast  on  whom  the  castle 

With  all  its  guards  doth  stand,  — 
The  beast  who  hath  between  his  eyes 

The  serpent  for  a  hand. 
First  march  the  bold  Epirotes, 

Wedged  close  with  shield  and  spear; 
And  the  ranks  of  false  Tarentuni 

Are  glittering  in  the  rear. 

25. 

"  The  ranks  of  false  Tarentum 
Like  hunted  sheep  shall  fly ; 

In  vain  fhe  bold  Epirotes 

Shall  round  their  standards  die  ; 


THOMAS  BABINGTON  MACAULAY.  327 

And  Apennine's  gray  vultures 

Shall  have  a  noble  feast 
On  the  fat  and  the  eyes 

Of  the  huge  earth-shaking  beast. 

26. 

"  Hurrah  for  the  good  weapons 

That  keep  the  War-God's  land  I 
Hurrah  for  Rome's  stout  pilum 

In  a  stout  Roman  hand  ! 
Hurrah  for  Rome's  short  broadsword, 
'  That  through  the  thick  array 
Of  leveled  spears  and  serried  shields 

Hews  deep  its  gory  way  ! 


27. 

"  Hurrah  for  the  great  triumph 

That  stretches  many  a  mile  1 
Hurrah  for  the  wan  captives 

That  pass  in  endless  file  ! 
Ho  !  bold  Epirotes,  whither 

Hath  the  Red  King  ta'en  flight  ? 
Ho  !  dogs  of  false  Tarentum, 

Is  not  the  gown  washed  white  ? 


28. 

"  Hurrah  for  the  great  triumph 

That  stretches  many  a  mile  ! 
Hurrah  for  the  rich  dye  of  Tyre, 

And  the  fine  web  of  Nile, 
The  helmets  gay  with  plumage 

Torn  from  die  pheasant's  wings, 
The  belts  set  thick  with  starry  gems 

That  shone  on  Indian  kings, 
The  urns  of  massy  silver, 

The  goblets  rough  with  gold, 
The  many-colored  tablets  bright 

With  loves  and  wars  of  old, 
The  stone  that  breathes  and  struggles, 

The  brass  that  seems  to  speak  !  — 
Such  cunning  they  who  dwell  on  high 

Have  given  unto  the  Greek. 


29. 

"  Hurrah  for  Manius  Curius, 
The  bravest  son  of  Rome,    . 

Thrice  in  utmost  need  sent  forth, 
Thrice  drawn  in  triumph  home ! 


328  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Weave,  weave,  for  Manius  Curius 

The  third  embroidered  gown  ; 
Make  ready  the  third  lofty  car ; 

And  twine  the  third  jrruen  crown ; 
And  yoke  the  steeds  of  Rosea 

With  necks  like  a  bended  bow ; 
And  deck  the  bull,  Mevania's  bull,  — 

The  bull  as  white  as  snow. 

30. 

"  Blest  and  thrice  blest  the  Roman 

Who  sees  Rome's  brightest  day  ; 
Who  sees  that  long  victorious  pomp 

Wind  down  the  Sacred  Way, 
And  through  the  bellowing  Forum, 

And  round  the  Suppliant's  Grove, 
Up  to  the  everlasting  gates 

Of  Capitolian  Jove. 

31. 

"  Then  where,  o'er  two  bright  havens, 

The  towers  of  Corinth  frown  ; 
Where  the  gigantic  King  of  Day 

On  his  own  Rhodes  looks  down ; 
Where  soft  Orontes  murmurs 

Beneath  the  laurel  shades  ; 
Where  Nile  reflects  the  endless  length 

Of  dark-red  colonnades ; 
Where,  in  the  still,  deep  water, 

Sheltered  from  waves  and  blasts, 
Bristles  the  dusky  forest 

Of  Byrsa's  thousand  masts ; 
Where  fur-clad  hunters  wander 

Amidst  the  northern  ice  ; 
Where  through  the  sand  of  morning-land 

The  camel  bears  the  spice ; 
Where  Atlas  flings  his  shadow 

Far  o'er  the  western  foam,  — 
Shall  be  great  fear  on  all  who  hear 

The  mighty  name  of  Rome." 


MILTON. 

IT  is  by  his  poetry  that  Milton  is  best  known ;  and  it  is  of  his 
poetry  that  we  wish  first  to  speak.  By  the  general  suffrage  of 
the  civilized  world,  his  place  has  been  assigned  among  the  great- 
est masters  of  the  art.  His  detractors,  however,  though  out- 
voted, have  not  been  silenced.  There  are  many  critics,  and  some 
of  great  name,  who  contrive  in  the  same  breath  to  extol  the 


THOMAS    BABIXGTON   MACAUT.AY.  820 

poems  and  to  decry  the  poet.  The  works,  they  acknowledge,  con- 
sidered in  themselves,  may  be  classed  among  the  noblest  produc- 
tions of  the  human  mind ;  but  they  will  not  allow  the  author  to 
rank  with  those  great  men,  who,  born  in  the  infancy  of  civiliza- 
tion, supplied  by  their  own  powers  the  want  of  instruction,  and, 
though  destitute  of  models  themselves,  bequeathed  to  posterity 
models  which  defy  imitation.  Milton,  it  is  said,  inherited  what 
his  predecessors  created;  he  lived  in  an  enlightened  age;  he 
received  a  finished  education  ;  and  we  must,  therefore,  if  we  would 
form  a  just  estimate  of  his  powers,  make  large  deductions  for 
these  advantages. 

We  venture  to  say,  on  the  contrary,  paradoxical  as  the  remark 
may  appear,  that  no  poet  has  ever  had  to  struggle  with  .more  un- 
favorable circumstances  than  Milton.  He  doubted,  as  he  has  him- 
self owned,  whether  he  had  not- been  born  tl  an  age  too  late."  For 
this  notion,  Johnson  has  thought  fit  to  make  him  the  butt  of  his 
clumsy  ridicule.  The  poet,  we  believe,  understood  the  nature  of 
his  art  better  than  the  critic.  He  knew  that  his  poetical  genius 
derived  no  advantage  from  the  civilization  which  surrounded  him, 
or  from  the  learning  which  he  had  acquired  ;  and  he  looked  back 
with  something  like  regret  to  the  ruder  age  of  simple  words  and 
vivid  impressions. 

We  think,  that,  as  civilization  advances,  poetry  almost  necessa- 
rily declines.  Therefore,  though  we  admire  those  great  works  of 
imagination  which  have  appeared  in  dark  ages,  we  do  not  admire 
them  the  more  because  they  have  appeared  in  dark  ages.  On  the 
contrary,  we  hold  that  the  most  wonderful  and  splendid  proof  of 
genius  is  a  great  poem  produced  in  a  civilized  age.  We  can  not 
understand  why  those  who  believe  in  that  most  orthodox  article 
of  literary  faith,  that  the  earliest  poets  are  generally  the  best, 
should  wonder  at  the  rule  as  if  it  were  the  exception.  Surely  the 
uniformity  of  the  phenomenon  indicates  a  corresponding  uniformi- 
ty in  the  cause. 

The  fact  is,  that  common  observers  reason  from  the  progress  of 
the  experimental  sciences  to  that  of  the  imitative  arts.  The  im- 
provement of  the  former  is  gradual  and  slow.  Ages  are  spent  in 
collecting  materials  ;  ages  more  in  separating  and  combining  them. 
Even  when  a  system  has  been  formed,  there  is  still  something  to 
add,  to  alter,  or  to  reject.  Every  generation  enjoys  the  use  of  a 
vast  hoard  bequeathed  to  it  by  antiquity,  and  transmits  it,  aug- 
mented by  fresh  acquisitions,  to  future  ages.  In  these  pursuits, 
therefore,  the  first  speculators  lie  under  great  disadvantages,  and, 
even  when  they  fail,  are  entitled  to  praise.  Their  pupils,  with  far 
inferior  intellectual  powers,  speedily  surpass-them  in  actual  attain- 
ments. Every  girl  who  has  read  Mrs.  Marcet's  "  Little  Dialogues 
on  Political  Economy  "  could  teach  Montague  or  Walpole  many 


ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

lessons  in  finance.  Any  intelligent  man  ma}'  now,  by  resolutely 
applying  himself  for  a  few  years  to  mathematics,  learn  more  than 
the  great  Xewton  knew  after  half  a  century  of  study  and  medi- 
tation. 

But  it  is  not  thus  with  music,  with  painting,  or  with  sculpture : 
still  less  is  it  thus  with  poetry.  The  progress  of  refinement 
rarely  supplies  these  arts  with  better  objects  of  imitation.  It  may, 
indeed,  improve  the  instruments  which  are  necessary  to  the  me- 
chanical operations  of  the  musician,  the  sculptor,  and  the  painter ; 
but  language,  the  machine  of  the  poet,  is  best  fitted  for  his  pur- 
pose in  its  rudest  state.  Xations,  like  individuals,  first  perceive, 
and  then  abstract.  They  advance  from  particular  images  to  gen- 
eral terms.  Hence  the  vocabulary  of  an  enlightened  society  is 
philosophical :  that  of  a  half-civilized  people  is  poetical. 

This  change  in  the  language  of  men  is  partly  the  cause,  and 
partly  the  effect,  of  a  corresponding  change  in  the  nature  of  their 
intellectual  operations, — a  change  by  which  science  gains,  and  poet- 
ry loses.  Generalization  is  necessary  to  the  advancement  of  knowl- 
edge, but  particularly  in  the  creations  of  the  imagination.  In  pro- 
portion as  men  know  more,  and  think  more,  they  look  less  at  indi- 
viduals, and  more  .at  classes.  They  therefore  make  better  theories, 
and  worse  poems.  They  give  us  vague  phrases  instead  of  images, 
and  personified  qualities  instead  of  men.  They  may  be  better 
able  to  analyze  human  nature  than  their  predecessors  ;  but  aual}T- 
sis  is  not  the  business  of  the  poet.  His  office  is  to  portraj7,  not 
to  dissect.  He  may  believe  in  a  moral  sense,  like  Shaftesbur}- ; 
he  may  refer  all  human  actions  to  self-interest,  like  Helvetius ;  or 
he  may  never  think  about  the  matter  at  all.  His  creed  on  such 
subjects  will  no  more  influence  his  poetry,  properly  so  called,  than 
the  notions  which  a  painter  may  have  conceived  respecting  the 
lachrymal  glands,  or  the  circulation  of  the  blood,  will  affect  the 
tears  of  his  Niobe,  or  the  blushes  of  his  Aurora.  If  Shakspeare 
had  written  a  book  on  the  motives  of  human  actions,  it  is  by  no 
means  certain  that  it  would  have  been  a  good  one.  It  is 
extremely  improbable  that  it  would  have  contained  half  so  much 
able  reasoning  on  the  subject  as  is  to  be  found  in  the  "  Fable  of 
the  Bees."  But  could  Mandeville  have  created  an  lago  ?  Well 
as  he  knew  how  to  resolve  characters  into  their  elements,  would  he 
have  been  able  to  combine  those  elements  in  such  a  manner  as  to 
make  up  a  man,  —  a  real,  living,  individual  man  ? 

Perhaps  no  man  can  be  a  poet,  or  can  even  enjoy  poetrv,  without 
a  certain  unsoundness  of  mind,  if  any  thing  which  gives  so  much 
pleasure  ought  to  be  called  uusoundness.  By  poetrv.  we  mean, 
not,  of  course,  all  writing  in  verse,  nor  even  all  good  writing  in 
ver.se.  Our  definition  excludes  many  metrical  compositions,  which 
on  other  grounds  deserve  the  highest  praise.  By  poetry,  we 


THOMAS    BABINGTON    MACAU-LAY.  331 

mean  the  art  of  employing  words  in  such  a  manner  as  to  produce 
an  illusion  on  the  imagination, — the  art  of  doing  by  means  of 
words  what  the  painter  does  by  means  of  colors.  Thus  the 
greatest  of  poets  has  described  it  in  lines  universally  admired  for  the 
vigor  and  felicity  of  their  diction,  and  still  more  valuable  on  ac- 
count of  the  just  notion  which  they  convey  of  the  art  in  which 
he  excelled :  — 

"  As  imagination  bodies  forth 
The  forms  of  things  unknown,  the  poet's  pen 
Turns  them  to  shapes,  and  gives  to  airy  nothing 
A  local  habitation  and  a  name." 

These  are  the  fruits  of  the  "  fine  frenzy"  which  he  ascribes  to  the 
poet,  —  a  fine  frenzy  doubtless,  but  still  a  frenzy.  Truth,  indeed, 
is  essential  to  poetry ;  but  it  is  tbe  truth  of  madness.  The  rea- 
sonings are  just;  but  the  premises  are  false.  After  the  first  sup- 
positions have  been  made,  every  thing  ought  to  be  consistent;  but 
those  first  suppositions  require  a  degree  of  credulity  which  almost 
amounts  to  a  partial  and  temporary  derangement  of  the  intellect. 
Hence,  of  all  people,  children  are  the  most  imaginative.  They 
abandon  themselves,  without  reserve,  to  every  illusion.  Every 
image  which  is  strongly  presented  to  their  mental  eye  produces 
on  them  the  effect  of  reality.  No  man,  whatever  his  sensibility 
may  be,  is  ever  affected  by  Hamlet  or  Lear  as  a  little  girl  is 
affected  by  the  story  of  poor  E-ed  Hiding-Hood.  She  knows  that 
it  is  all  false,  that  wolves  can  not  speak,  that  there  are  no  wolves 
in  England :  yet,  in  spite  of  her  knowledge,  she  believes ;  she 
weeps ;  she  trembles ;  she  dares  not  go  into  a  dark  room,  lest  she 
should  feel  the  teeth  of  the  monster  at  her  throat.  Such  is  the 
despotism  of  the  imagination  over  uncultivated  minds.  In  a  rude 
state  of  society,  men  are  children  with  a  greater  variety  of  ideas. 
It  is,  therefore,  in  such  a  state  of  society,  that  we  may  expect 
to  find  the  poetical  temperament  in  its  highest  perfection.  In  an 
enlightened  age,  there  will  be  much  intelligence,  much  science, 
much  philosophy,  abundance  of  just  classification  and  subtle  analy- 
sis, abundance  of  wit  and  eloquence,  abundance  of  verses,  and 
even  of  good  ones,  but  little  poetry.  Men  will  judge  and  com- 
pare ;  but  they  will  not  create.  They  will  talk  about  the  old 
poets,  and  comment  on  them,  and  to  a  certain  degree  enjoy  them ; 
but  they  will  scarcely  be  able  to  conceive  the  effect  which  poetry 
produced  on  their  ruder  ancestors, — the  agony,  the  ecstasy,  the 
plenitude  of  belief.  The  Greek  rhapsodists,  according  to  Plato, 
could  not  recite  Homer  without  almost  falling  into  convulsions. 
The  Mohawk  hardly  feels  the  scalping-knife  while  he  shouts  his 
death-song.  The  power  which  the  ancient  bards  of  Wales  and 
Germany  exercised  over  their  auditors  seems  to  modern  readers 
almost  miraculous.  Such  feelings  are  very  rare  in  a  civilized 


332  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

community,  and  most  rare  among  those  who  participate  most  in 
its  improvements.     They  linger  longest  among  the  peasantry. 

Poetry  produces  an  illusion  on  tlie  eye  of  the  mind  as  a  magic- 
lantern  produces  an  illusion  on  the  eye  of  the  body.  And,  as  the 
magic-lantern  acts  best  in  a  dark  room,  poetry  effects  its  purpose 
most  completely  in  a  dark  age.  As  the  light  of  knowledge  breaks 
in  upon  its  exhibitions,  as  the  outlines  of  certainty  become  more 
and  more  definite,  and  the  shades  of  probability  more  and  more 
distinct,  the  hues  and  lineaments  of  the  phantoms  which  it  calls 
up  grow  fainter  and  fainter.  We  can  not  unite  the  incom- 
patible advantages  of  reality  and  deception,  the  clear  discernment 
of  truth,  and  the  exquisite  enjoyment  of  fiction.  He  who,  in  an 
enlightened  and  literary  society,  aspires  to  be  a  great  poet,  must 
first  become  a  little  child.  He  must  take  to  pieces  the  whole  web 
of  his  mind.  He  must  unlearn  much  of  that  knowledge  which 
has  perhaps  constituted  hitherto  his  chief  title  of  superiority. 
His  very  talents  will  be  a  hinderance  to  him.  His  difficulties 
will  be  proportioned  to  his  proficiency  in  the  pursuits  which  are 
fashionable  among  his  contemporaries ;  and  that  proficiency  will, 
in  general,  be  proportioned  to  the  vigor  and  activity  of  his  mind. 
And  it  is  well,  if,  after  all  his  sacrifices  and  exertions,  his  works 
do  not  resemble  a  lisping  man  or  a  modern  ruin.  We  have  seen 
in  our  own  time  great  talents,  intense  labor,  and  long  meditation, 
employed  in  this  struggle  against  the  spirit  of  the  age,  and  em- 
ployed, we  will  not  say  absolutely  in  vain,  but  with  dubious  suc- 
cess and  feeble  applause.  If  these  reasonings  be  just,  no  poet  has 
ever  triumphed  over  greater  difficulties  than  Milton.  He  received 
a  learned  education ;  he  was  a  profound  and  elegant  classical 
scholar ;  he  had  studied  all  the  mysteries  of  rabbinical  literature  ; 
he  was  intimately  acquainted  with  every  language  of  modern 
Europe  from  which  either  pleasure  or  information  was  then  to  be 
derived.  He  was,  perhaps,  the  only  great  poet  of  later  times  who 
had  been  distinguished  by  the  excellence  of  his  Latin  verse.  The 
genius  of  Petrarch  was  scarcely  of  the  first  order ;  and  his  poems 
in  the  ancient  language,  though  much  praised  by  those  who  have 
never  read  them,  are  wretched  compositions.  Cowley,  with  all  his 
admirable  wit  and  ingenuity,  had  little  imagination ;  nor,  indeed, 
do  we  think  his  classical  diction  comparable  to  that  of  Milton. 
The  authority  of  Johnson  is  against  us  on  this  point.  But  John- 
son had  studied  the  bad  writers  of  the  middle  ages  till  he  had 
become  utterly  insensible  to  the  Augustan  elegance,  and  was  as  ill 
qualified  to  judge  between  two  Latin  styles  as  an  habitual  drunk- 
ard to  set  up  for  a  wine-taster.  Versification  in  a  dead  language 
is  an  exotic ;  a  far-fetched,  costly,  sickly  imitation  of  that  which 
elsewhere  may  be  found  in  healthful  and  spontaneous  perfection. 
The  soils  on  which  this  rarity  flourishes  are  in  general  as  ill 


THOMAS   BABTNGTON   MACAULAY.  333 

suited  to  the  production  of  vigorous  native  poetry  as  the  flower- 
pots of  a  hot-house  to  the  growth  of  oaks.  That  the  author  of 
"  The  Paradise  Lost "  should  have  written  the  "  Epistle  to  Manso  " 
was  truly  wonderful.  Never  before  were  such  marked  originality 
and  such  exquisite  mimicry  found  together.  Indeed,  in  all  the 
Latin  poems  of  Milton,  the  artificial  manner  indispensable  to  such 
works  is  admirably  preserved ;  while  at  the  same  time  the  rich- 
ness of  his  fancy,  and  the  elevation  of  his  sentiments,  give  to 
them  a  peculiar  charm,  an  air  of  nobleness  and  freedom,  which 
distinguishes  them  from  all  other  writings  of  the  same  class. 
They  remind  us  of  the  amusements  of  those  angelic  warriors  who 
composed  the  cohort  of  Gabriel :  — 

"  About  him  exercised  heroic  games 
The  unarmed  youth  of  heaven.     But  o'er  their  heads 
Celestial  armory,  shield,  helm,  and  spear, 
Hung  bright,  with  diamond  flaming  and  with  gold." 

We  can  not  look  upon  the  sportive  exercises  for  which  the 
genius  of  Milton  ungirds  itself,  without  catching  a  glimpse  of  the 
gorgeous  and  terrible  panoply  which  it  is  accustomed  to  wear. 
The  strength  of  his  imagination  triumphed  over  every  obstacle. 
So  intense  and  ardent  was  the  fire  of  his  mind,  that  it  not  only 
was  not  suffocated  beneath  the  weight  of  its  fuel,  but  penetrated 
the  whole  superincumbent  mass  with  its  own  heat  and  radiance. 

It  is  not  our  intention  to  attempt  any  thing  like  a  complete 
examination  of  the  poetry  of  Milton.  The  public  has  long  been 
agreed  as  to  the  merit  of  the  most  remarkable  passages,  the 
incomparable  harmony  of  the  numbers,  and  the  excellence  of  that 
style  which  no  rival  has  been  able  to  equal,  and  no  parodist  to 
degrade ;  which  displays  in  their  highest  perfection  the  idiomatic 
powers  of  the  English  tongue ;  and  to  -which  every  ancient  and 
every  modern  language  has  contributed  something  of  grace,  of 
energy,  or  of  music.  In  the  vast  field  of  criticism  in  which  we 
are  entering,  innumerable  reapers  have  already  put  their  sickles ; 
yet  the  harvest  is  so  abundant,  that  the  negligent  search  of  a 
straggling  gleaner  may  be  rewarded  with  a  sheaf. 

The  most  striking  characteristic  of  the  poetry  of  Milton  is  the 
extreme  remoteness  of  the  associations  by  means  of  which  it  acts 
on  the  reader.  Its  effect  is  produced,  not  so  much  by  what  it 
expresses,  as  by  what  it  suggests ;  not  so  much  by  the  ideas 
which  it  directly  conveys,  as  by  other  ideas  which  are  connected 
with  them.  He  electrifies  the  mind  through  conductors.  The 
most  unimaginative  man  must  understand  the  Iliad.  Homer  gives 
him  no  choice,  and  requires  from  him  no  exertion,  but  takes  the 
whole  upon  himself,  and  sets  his  images  in  so  clear  a  light,  that  it 
is  impossible  to  be  blind  to  them.  The  works  of  Milton  can  not 
be  comprehended  or  enjoyed  unless  the  mind  of  the  reader  co- 


334  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

operate  with  that  of  the  writer.  He  does  not  paint  a  finished 
picture,  or  play  for  a  mere  passive  listener.  He  sketches,  and 
leaves  others  to  fill  up  the  outline.  '  He  strikes  the  keynote,  and 
expects  his  hearer  to  make  out  the  melody. 

\Ve  often  hear  of  the  magical  influence  of  poetry.  The  ex- 
pression, in  general,  means  nothing;  but,  applied  to  the  writings 
<>f  Milton,  it  is  most  appropriate.  His  poetry  acts  like  an 
incantation.  Its  merit  lies  less  in  its  obvious  meaning  than 
in  its  occult  power.  There  would  seem,  at  first  sight,  to  be 
no  more  in  his  words  than  in  other  words ;  but  they  are 
words  of 'enchantment :  no  sooner  are  they  pronounced  than 
the  past  is  present,  and  the  distant  near.  !New  forms  of 
beauty  start  at  once  into  existence ;  and  all  the  burial-places 
of  the  memory  give  up  their  dead.  Change  the  structure 
of  the  sentence,  substitute  one  synonym  for  another,  and  the 
whole  effect  is  destroyed.  The  spell  loses  its  power;  and  he  who 
should  then  hope  to  conjure  wjtli  it  would  find  himself  as  much 
mistaken  as  Cassim  in  the  Arabian  tale,  when  he  stood  crying, 
"  Open,  Wheat !  "  "  Open,  Barley  !  "  to  the  door  which  obeyed  no 
sound  but  "  Open,  Sesame  ! "  The  miserable  failure  of  Dryden 
in  his  attempt  to  rewrite  some  parts  of  the  "Paradise  Lost"  is  a 
remarkable  instance  of  this. 

In  support  of  these  observations,  we  may  remark,  that  scarcely 
any  passages  in  the  poems  of  Milton  are  more  generally  known, 
or  more  frequently  repeated,  than  those  which  are  little  more 
than  muster-rolls  of  names.  They  are  not  always  more  appro- 
priate or  more  melodious  than  other  names ;  but  they  are 
charmed  names.  Every  one  of  them  is  the  first  link  in  a  long 
chain  of  associated  ideas.  Like  the  dwelling-place  of  our  in- 
fancy revisited  in  manhood,  like  the  song  of  our  country  heard  in 
a  strange  land,  they  produce  upon  us  an  effect  wholly  independent 
of  their  intrinsic  value.  One  transports  us  back  to  a  remote 
period  of  histor}*;  another  places  us  among  the  moral  scenery 
and  manners  of  a  distant  country;  a  third  evokes  all  the  dear 
classical  recollections  of  childhood,  —  the  schoolroom,  the  dog- 
eared "  Virgil,"  the  holiday,  and  the  prize  ;  a  fourth  brings  before 
us  the  splendid  phantoms  of  chivalrous  romance,  the  trophied 
lists,  the  embroidered  housings,  the  quaint  devices,  the  haunted 
forests,  the  enchanted  gardens,  the  achievements  of  enamored 
knights,  and  the  smiles  of  rescued  princesses.  In  none  of  the 
works  of  Milton  is  his  peculiar  manner  more  happily  displayed 
than  in  the  "  Allegro  "  and  the  "Penseroso."  It  is  impossible  to 
conceive  that  the  mechanism  of  language  can  be  brought  to  a  more 
exquisite  degree  of  perfection.  These  poems  differ  from  others 
as  attar  of  roses  differs  from  ordinary  rose-water,  the  close-parked 
essence  from  the  thin  diluted  mixture.  They  are,  indeed,  not  so 


THOMAS  BABINGTON  MACAULAY.  335 

much  poems  as  collections  of  hints,  from  each  of  which  the  reader 
is  to  make  out  a  poem  for  himself.  Every  epithet  is  a  text  for  a 
canto.  The  "  Coinus  "  and  the  "  Samson  Agonistes  "  are  works, 
which,  though  of  very  different  merit,  offer  some  marked  points 
of  resemblance.  They  are  both  lyric  poems  in  the  form  of  plays. 
There  are,  perhaps,  no  two  kinds  of  composition  so  essentially 
dissimilar  as  the  drama  and  the  ode.  The  business  of  the  drama- 
tist is  to  keep  himself  out  of  sight,  and  to  let  nothing  appear  but 
his  characters.  As  soon  as  he  attracts  notice  to  his  personal 
feelings,  the  illusion  is  broken  :  the  effect  is  as  unpleasant  as 
that  which  is  produced  on  the  stage  by  the  voice  of  a  prompter 
or  the  entrance  of  a  scene-shifter.  Hence  it  was  that  the  trage- 
dies of  Byron  were  his  least  successful  performances.  They 
resemble  those  pasteboard  pictures  invented  by  the  friend  of 
children,  Mr.  Newberry,  in  which  a  single  movable  head  goes 
around  twenty  different  bodies  ;  so  that  the  same  face  looks  out 
upon  us  successively  from  the  unifoijm  of  a  hussar,  the  furs  of  a 
judge,  and  the  rags  of  a  beggar.  In  all  the  characters,  —  patriots 
and  tyrants,  haters  and  lovers,  —  the  frown  and  sneer  of  Harold 
were  discernible  in  an  instant.  But  this  species  of  egotism, 
though  fatal  to  the  drama,  is  the  inspiration  of  the  ode.  It  is  the 
part  of  the  lyric  poet  to  abandon  himself,  without  reserve,  to  his 
own  emotions.  Between  these  hostile  elements,  many  great  men 
have  endeavored  to  effect  an  amalgamation,  but  never  with  com- 
plete success.  The  Greek  drama,  on  the  model  of  which  the 
"  Samson  "  was  written,  sprung  from  the  ode.  The  dialogue  was 
ingrafted  on  the  chorus,  and  naturally  partook  of  its  character. 
The  genius  of  the  greatest  of  the  Athenian  dramatists  co-operated 
with  the  circumstances  under  which  tragedy  made  its  first  appear- 
ance. ^Eschylus  was,  head  and  heart,  a  lyric  poet.  In  his  time, 
the  Greeks  had  far  more  intercourse  with  the  East  than  in  the 
days  of  Homer ;  and  they  had  not  yet  acquired  that  immense 
superiority  in  war,  in  science,  and  in  the  arts,  which,  in  the  fol- 
lowing generation,  led  them  to  treat  the  Asiatics  with  contempt. 
From  the  narrative  of  Herodotus,  it  would  seem  that  they  still 
looked  up  with  the  veneration  of  disciples  to  Egypt  and  Assyria. 
At  this  period,  accordingly,  it  was  natural  that  the  literature  of 
Greece  should  be  tinctured  with  the  Oriental  style;  and  that 
style,  we  think,  is  clearly  discernible  in  the  works  of  Pindar  and 
JSschylus.  The  latter  often  reminds  us  of  the  Hebrew  writers. 
The  Book  of  Job,  indeed,  in  conduct  and  diction,  bears  a  consider- 
able resemblance  to  some  of  his  dramas.  Considered  as  plays, 
his  works  are  absurd ;  considered  as  choruses,  they  are  above  all 
praise.  If,  for  instance,  we  examine  the  address  of  Clytemnestra 
to  Agamemnon  on  his  return,  or  the  description  of  the  seven 
Argive  chiefs,  by  the  principles  of  dramatic  writing,  we  shall 


336  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

instantly  condemn  them  as  monstrous;  but  if  we  forget  the 
characters,  and  think  only  of  the.. poetry,  we  shall  admit  that  it 
has  never  been  surpassed  in  energy  and  magnificence.  Sophocles 
made  the  Greek  drama  as  dramatic  as  was  consistent  with  its 
original  form.  His  portraits  of  men  have  a  sort  of  similarity  ;  but 
it  is  the  similarity,  not  of  a  painting,  but  of  a  bass-relief.  It  sug- 
gests a  resemblance ;  but  it  does  not  produce  an  illusion.  Euripides 
attempted  to  carry  the  reform  farther;  but  it  was  a  task  far 
beyond  his  powers, — perhaps  beyond  any  powers.  Instead  of 
correcting  what  was  bad,  he  destroyed  what  was  excellent.  He 
substituted  crutches  for  stilts,  bad  sermons  for  good  odes. 

Milton,  it  is  well  known,  admired  Euripides  highly;  much  more 
highly  than,  in  our  opinion,  he  deserved.  Indeed,  the  caresses 
which  this  partiality  leads  him  to  bestow  on  "sad  Electra's  poet" 
sometimes  reminds  us  of  the  beautiful  Queen  of  Fairyland 
kissing  the  long  ears  of  Bottom.  At  all  events,  there  can  be  no 
doubt  that  this  veneration  fo#  the  Athenian,  whether  just  or  not, 
was  injurious  to  the  "  Samson  Agonistes."  Had  he  taken  ^Eschy- 
lus  for  his  model,  he  would  have  given  himself  up  to  the  lyric 
inspiration,  and  poured  out  profusely  all  the  treasures  of  his  mind, 
without  bestowing  a  thought  on  those  dramatic  proprieties  which 
the  nature  of  the  work  rendered  it  impossible  to  preserve.  In 
the  attempt  to  reconcile  things  in  their  own  nature  inconsistent, 
he  has  failed,  as  every  one  must  have  failed.  We  can  not  identify 
ourselves  with  the  characters,  as  in  a  good  play.  We  can  not 
identify  ourselves  with  the  poet,  as  in  a  good  ode.  The  conflicting 
ingredients,  like  an  acid  and  an  alkali  mixed,  neutralize  each 
other.  We  are  by  no  means  insensible  to  the  merits  of  this  cele- 
brated piece ;  to  the  severe  dignity  of  the  style,  the  graceful  and 
pathetic  solemnity  of  the  opening  speech,  or  the  wild  and  barbaric 
melody  which  gives  so  striking  an  effect  to  the  choral  passages: 
but  we  think  it,  we  confess,  the  least  successful  effort  of  the  genius 
of  Milton. 

The  "  Comus  "  is  framed  on  the  model  of  the  Italian  masque, 
as  the  "  Samson  "  is  framed  on  the  model  of  the  Greek  tragedy. 
It  is,  certainly,  the  noblest  performance  of  the  kind  which  exists 
in  any  language.  It  is  as  far  superior  to  the  "Faithful  Shep- 
herdess," as  the  "Faithful  Shepherdess"  is  to  the  "Aminta,"  or 
the  "  Aminta  "  to  the  "  Pastor  Fido."  It  was  well  for  Milton  that 
he  had  here  no  Euripides  to  mislead  him.  He  understood  and 
loved  the  literature  of  modern  Italy ;  but  he  did  not  feel  for  it 
the  same  veneration  which  he  entertained  for  the  remains  of 
Athenian  and  Roman  poetry,  consecrated  by  so  many  lofty  and 
endearing  recollections.  The  faults,  moreover,  of  his  Italian  prede- 
cessors, were  of  a  kind  to  which  his  mind  had  a  deadly  antipathy. 
He  could  stoop  to  a  plain  style,  sometimes  even  to  a  bald  style ; 


THOMAS   BABINGTON  MACAULAY.  337 

but  false  brilliancy  was  his  utter  aversion.  His  Muse  had  no 
objection  to  a  russet  attire ;  but  she  turned  with  disgust  from 
the  finery  of  Guarini,  as  tawdry  and  as  paltry  as  the  rags  of  a 
chimney-sweeper  on  May  Day.  Whatever  ornaments  she  wears 
are  of  massive  gold,  not  only  dazzling  to  the  sight,  but  capable  of 
standing  the  severest  test  of  the  crucible. 

Milton  attended  in  the  "  Comus "  to  the  distinction  which  he 
neglected  in  the  "  Samson."  He  made  it  what  it  ought  to  be,  — • 
essentially  lyrical,  and  dramatic  only  in  semblance.  He  has  not 
attempted  a  fruitless  struggle  against  a  defect  inherent  in  the 
nature  of  that  species  of  composition ;  and  he  has,  therefore,  suc- 
ceeded wherever  success  was  not  impossible.  The  speeches  must 
be  read  as  majestic  soliloquies ;  and  he  who  so  reads  them  will  be 
enraptured  with  their  eloquence,  their  sublimity,  and  their  music. 
The  interruptions  of  the  dialogue,  however,  impose  a  constraint 
upon  the  writer,  and  break  the  illusion  of  the  reader.  The  finest 
passages  are  those  which  are  lyric  jn  form  as  well  as'  in  spirit. 
"  I  should  much  commend,"  says  the  excellent  Sir  Henry  Wotton 
in  a  letter  to  Milton,  "  the  tragical  part,  if  the  lyrical  did  not  rav- 
ish me  with  a  certain  Doric  delicacy  in  your  songs  and  odes; 
whereunto,  I  most  plainly  confess  to  you,  I  have  seen  yet  nothing 
parallel  in  our  language."  The  criticism  was  just.  It  is  when 
Milton  escapes  from  the  shackles  of  the  dialogue,  when  he  is  dis- 
charged from  the  labor  of  uniting  two  incongruous  styles,  when 
he  is  at  liberty  to  indulge  his  choral  raptures  without  reserve,  that 
he  rises  even  above  himself.  Then,  like  his  own  Good  Genius, 
bursting  from  the  earthly  form  and  weeds  of  Thyrsis,  he  stands 
forth  in  celestial  freedom  and  beauty:  he  seems  to  cry  exultingly,  — 

"  Now  mv  task  is  smoothly  done, 
I  can  fly,  or  I  can  run," 

to  skim  the  earth,  to  soar  above  the  clouds,  to  bathe  in  the  Elysian 
dew  of  the  rainbow,  and  to  inhale  the  balmy  smells  of  nard  and 
cassia  which  the  musky  winds  of  the  zephyr  scatter  through  the 
cedared  alleys  of  the  Hesperides.  There  are  several  of  the  minor 
poems  of  Milton  on  which  we  would  willingly  make  a  few  remarks. 
Still  more  willingly  would  we  enter  into  a  detailed  examination 
of  that  admirable  poem,  the  "  Paradise  Regained,"  which,  strangely 
enough,  is  scarcely  ever  mentioned,  except  as  an  instance  of  the 
blindness  of  that  parental  affection  which  men  of  letters  bear 
toward  the  offspring  of  their  intellects.  That  Milton  was  mis- 
taken in  preferring  this  work,  excellent  as  it  is,  to  the  "Paradise 
Lost,"  we  must  readily  admit ;  but  we  are  sure  that  the  superiority 
of  the  "  Paradise  Lost "  to  the  "  Paradise  Regained  "  is  not  more 
decided  than  the  superiority  of  the  "Paradise  Regained  "'to  every 
poem  which  has  since  made  its  appearance.  But  our  limits  prevent 

22 


338  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

us  from  discussing  the  point  at  length.  We  hasten  on  to  that  ex- 
traordinary production  which  the  general  suffrage  of  critics  has 
placed  in  the  highest  class  of  human  compositions.  The  only  poem 
of  modern  times  which  can  be  compared  with  the  "  Paradise  Lost " 
is  the  "  Divine  Comedy."  The  subject  of  Milton,  in  some  points, 
resembled  that  of  Dante  ;  but  he  has  treated  it  in  a  widely  differ- 
ent manner.  We  can  not,  we  think,  better  illustrate  our  opinion 
respecting  our  own  great  poet  than  by  contrasting  him  with  the 
father  of  Tuscan  literature. 

The  poetry  of  Milton  differs  from  that  of  Dante  as  the  hiero- 
glyphics of  Egypt  differed  from  the  picture-writing  of  Mexico. 
The  images  which  Dante  employs  speak  for  themselves:  they 
stand  simply  for  what  they  are.  Those  of  Milton  have  a  signifi-j 
ca'ion  which  is  often  discernible  only  to  the  initiated.  Their 
value  depends  less  on  what  they  directly  represent  than  on  what 
they  remotely  suggest.  However  strange,  however  grotesque,  may 
be  the  appearance  which  Dante  undertakes  to  describe,  he  never 
shrinks  from  describing  it.  He  gives  us  the  shape,  the  color,  the 
sound,  the  smell,  the  taste ;  he  counts  the  numbers ;  he  measures 
the  size.  His  similes  are  the  illustrations  of  a  traveler.  Unlike 
those  of  other  poets,  and  especially  of  Milton,  they  are  introduced 
in  a  plain,  business-like  manner;  not  for  the  sake  of  any  beauty 
in  the  objects  from  which  they  are  drawn,  not  for  the  sake  of  any 
ornament  which  they  may  impart  to  the  poem,  but  simply  in 
order  to  make  the  meaning  of  the  writer  as  clear  to  the  reader  as 
it  is  to  himself.  The  ruins  of  the  precipice  which  led  from  the 
sixth  to  the  seventh  circle  of  hell  were  like  those  of  the  rock  which 
fell  into  the  Adige  on  the  south  of  Trent.  The  cataract  of  Phlege- 
tlion  was  like  that  of  Aqua  Cheta  at  the  monastery  of  St.  Bene- 
dict. The  place  where  the  heretics  were  confined  in  burning 
tombs  resembled  the  vast  cemetery  of  Aries.  Now,  let  us  com- 
pare with  the  exact  details  of  Dante  the  dim  intimations  of  Mil- 
ton. We  will  cite  a  few  examples.  The  English  poet  has  never 
thought  of  taking  the  measure  of  Satan.  He  gives  us  merely  a 
vague  idea  of  vast  bulk.  In  one  passage,  the  fiend  lies  stretched 
out,  huge  in  length,  floating  many  a  rood,  equal  in  size  to  the 
earth-born  enemies  of  Jove,  or  to  the  sea-monster  which  the 
mariner  mistakes  for  an  island.  When  he  addresses  himself  to 
battle  against  the  guardian  angels,  he  stands  like  Teneriffe  or 
Atlas  :  his  stature  reaches  the  sky.  Contrast  with  these  descrip- 
tions the  lines  in  which  Dante  has  described  the  gigantic  specter 
of  Nimrod  ^  "  His  face  seemed  to  me  as  long  and  as  broad  as  the 
ball  of  St.  Peter's  at  Rome ;  and  his  other  limbs  were  in  propor- 
tion :  so  that  the  bank,  which  concealed  him  from  the  waist  down- 
wards, nevertheless  showed  so  much  of  him,  that  three  tall  Ger- 
mans would  in  vain  have  attempted  to  reach  his  hair."  We  are 


THOMAS   BABrNGTOtf  MACAULAY.  339 

sensible  that  we  do  no  justice  to  the  admirable  style  of  the  Floren- 
tine poet :  but  Mr.  Cary's  translation  is  not  at  hand ;  and  our 
version,  however  rude,  is  sufficient  to  illustrate  our  meaning. 

Once  more:  compare  the  lazar-house  in  the  eleventh  book  of 
the  "  Paradise  Lost "  with  the  last  ward  of  Malebolge  in  Dante. 
Milton  avoids  the  loathsome  details,  and  takes  refuge  in  indistinct 
but  solemn  and  tremendous  imagery, — Despair  hurrying  from 
couch  to  couch  to  mock  the  wretches  with  his  attendance  ;  Death 
shaking  his  dart  over  them,  but,  in  spite  of  supplications,  delay- 
ing to  strike.  What  says  Dante  ?  —  "  There  was  such  a  moan 
there  as  there  would  be  if  all  the  sick,  who,  between  July  and 
September,  are  in  the  hospitals  of  Valdichiana,  and  of  the  Tuscan 
swamps,  and  of  Sardinia,  were  in  one  pit  together;  and  such  a 
stench  was  issuing  forth  as  is  wont  to  issue  from  decayed  limbs." 
We  will  not  take  upon  ourselves  the  invidious  office  of  settling 
precedency  between  two  such  writers.  Each  in  his  own  depart- 
ment is  incomparable ;  and  each,  we  may  remark,  has,  wisely  or 
fortunately,  taken  a  subject  adapted  to  exhibit  his  peculiar  talent 
to  the  greatest  advantage.  The  "Divine  Comedy"  is  a  personal 
narrative.  Dante  is  the  eye-witness  and  ear-witness  of  that  which 
he  relates.  He  is  the  very  man  who  has  heard  the  tormented 
spirits  crying  out  for  the  second  death ;  who  has  read  the  dusky 
characters  on  the  portal,  within  which  there  is  no  hope ;  who  has 
hidden  his  face  from  the  terrors  of  the  Gorgon;  who  has  fled  from 
the  hooks  and  the  seething  pitch  of  Barbariccia  and  Diaghignazzo. 
His  own  hands  have  grasped  the  shaggy  sides  of  Lucifer ;  his 
own  feet  have  climbed  the  Mountain  of  Expiation ;  his  own  brow 
has  been  marked  by  the  purifying  angel.  The  reader  would  throw 
aside  such  a  tale  in  incredulous  disgust,  unless  it  were  told  with 
the  strongest  air  of  veracity,  with  a  sobriety  even  in  its  horrors, 
with  the  greatest  precision  and  multiplicity  in  its  details.  The 
narrative  of  Milton  in  this  respect  differs  from  that  of  Dante  as 
the  adventures  of  Amidas  differ  from  those  of  Gulliver.  The 
author  of  "  Amidas  "  would  have  made  his  book  ridiculous  if  he  had 
introduced  those  minute  particulars  which  gave  such  a  charm  to 
the  work  of  Swift,  —  the  nautical  observations,  the  affected  delicacy 
about  names,  the  official  documents  transcribed  at  full  length,  and 
all  the  unmeaning  gossip  and  scandal  of  the  court,  springing  out 
of  nothing,  and  tending  to  nothing.  We  are  not  shocked  at  being 
told  that  a  man  who  lived,  nobody  knows  when,  saw  many  very 
strange  sights ;  and  we  can  easily  abandon  ourselves  to  the  illu- 
sion of  the  romance.  But  when  Lemuel  Gulliver,  surgeon,  now 
actually  resident  at  Rotherhithe,  tells  us  of  pygmies  and  giants, 
flying  islands  and  philosophizing  horses,  nothing  but  such  circum- 
stantial touches  could  produce  for  a  single  moment  a  deception 
on  the  imagination.  Of  all  the  poets  who  have  introduced  into 


340  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

their  works  the  agency  of  supernatural  beings,  Milton  has  succeed- 
ed best.  Here  Dante  decidedly  yields  to  him.  And,  as  this  is  a 
point  on  which  many  rash  and  ill-considered  judgments  have  been 
pronounced,  we  feel  inclined  to  dwell  on  it  a  little  longer.  The 
most  fatal  error  which  a  poet  can  possibly  commit  in  the  manage- 
ment of  his  machinery  is  that  of  attempting  to  philosophize  too 
much.  Milton  has  been  often  censured  for  ascribing  to  spirits 
many  functions  of  which  spirits  must  be  incapable ;  but  these 
objections,  though  sanctioned  by  eminent  names,  originate,  we  ven- 
ture to  say,  in  profound  ignorance  of  the  art  of  poetry.  What  is 
spirit  ?  What  are  our  own  minds,  the  portion  of  spirit  with  which 
we  are  best  acquainted  ?  We  observe  certain  phenomena :  we 
can  not  explain  them  into  material  causes ;  we  therefore  infer 
that  there  exists  something  which  is  not  material.  But  of  this 
something  we  have  no  idea.  We  can  define  it  only  by  negatives. 
We  can  reason  about  it  only  by  symbols.  We  use  the  word;  but 
we  have  no  image  of  the  thing  :  and  the  business  of  poetry  is  with 
images,  and  not  with  words.  The  poet  uses  words,  indeed ;  but 
they  are  merely  the  instruments  of  his  art,  not  its  objects.  They 
are  the  materials  which  he  is  to  dispose  in  such  a  manner  as  to 
present  a  picture  to  the  mental  eye.  And,  if  they  are  not  so  dis- 
posed, they  are  no  more  entitled  to  be  called  poetry  than  a  bale 
of  canvas  and  a  box  of  colors  are  to  be  called  a  painting.  Logi- 
cians may  reason  about  abstractions;  but  the  great  mass  of  man- 
kind can  never  feel  an  interest  in  them.  They  must  have  images. 
The  strong  tendency  of  the  multitude,  in  all  ages  and  nations,  to 
idolatry,  can  be  explained  on  no  other  principle.  The  first  inhabit- 
ants of  Greece,  there  is  every  reason  to  believe,  worshiped  one 
invisible  Deity ;  but  the  necessity  of  having  something  more 
definite  to  adore  produced  in  a  few  centuries  the  innumerable 
crowd  of  gods  and  goddesses.  In  like  manner,  the  ancient  Per- 
sians thought  it  impious  to  exhibit  the  Creator  under  a  human 
form  ;  yet  even  these  transferred  to  the  sun  the  worship,  which, 
speculatively,  they  considered  due  only  to  the  Supreme  Mind. 
The  history  of  the  Jews  is  the  record  of  a  continual  struggle 
between  pure  Theism,  supported  by  the  most  terrible  sanctions, 
and  the  strangely-fascinating  desire  of  having  some  visible  and 
tangible  object  of  adoration.  Perhaps  none  of  the  secondary 
causes  which  Gibbon  has  assigned  for  the  rapidity  with  which 
Christianity  spread  over  the  world,  while  Judaism  scarcely  ever 
acquired  a  proselyte,  operated  more  powerfully  than  this  feeling. 
God,  the  uncreated,  the  incomprehensible,  the  invisible,  attracted 
few  worshipers.  A  philosopher  might  admire  so  noble  a  concep- 
tion ;  but  the  crowd  turned  away  in  disgust  from  words  which 
presented  no  image  to  their  minds.  It  was  before  Deity  embodied 
in  a  human,  form,  walking  among  men,  partaking  of  their  infirmi- 


THOMAS   BABINGTON  MACACTLAY.  341 

ties,  leaning  on  their  bosoms,  weeping  over  their  graves,  slumber- 
ing in  the  manger,  bleeding  on  the  cross,  that  the  prejudices  of 
the  Synagogue,  and  the  doubts  of  the  Academy,  and  the  pride  of 
the  Portico,  and  the  fasces  of  the  lictor,  and  the  swords  of  thirty 
legions,  were  humbled  in  the  dust.  Soon  after  Christianity  had 
achieved  its  triumph,  the  principle  which  had  assisted  it  began 
to  corrupt.  It  became  a  new  paganism.  Patron  saints  assumed 
the  offices  of  household  gods.  St.  George  took  the  place  of  Mars. 
St.  Elmo  consoled  the  mariner  for  the  loss  of  "  Castor  and  Pollux." 
The  Virgin  Mother  and  Cecilia  succeeded  to  Venus  and  the  Muses. 
The  fascination  of  sex  and  loveliness  was  again  joined  to  that  of 
celestial  dignity;  and  the  homage  of  chivalry  was  blended  with 
that  of  religion.  Reformers  have  often  made  a  stand  against 
these  feelings,  but  never  with  more  than  apparent  and  partial 
success.  The  men  who  demolished  the  images  in  cathedrals  have 
not  always  been  able  to  demolish  those  which  were  enshrined  in 
their  minds.  It  would  not  be  difficult  to  show  that  in  politics  the 
same  rule  holds  good.  Doctrines,  we  are  afraid,  must  generally 
be  embodied,  before  they  can  excite  strong  public  feeling.  The 
multitude  is  more  easily  interested  for  the  most  unmeaning  badge 
or  the  most  insignificant  name  than  for  the  most  important  prin- 
ciple. From  these  considerations,  we  infer  that  no  poet  who 
should  affect  that  metaphysical  accuracy,  for  the  want  of  which 
Milton  has  been  blamed,  would  escape  a  disgraceful  failure.  Still, 
however,  there  was  another  extreme,  which,  though  far  less  dan- 
gerous, was  also  to  be  avoided.  The  imaginations  of  men  are  in 
a  great  measure  under  the  control  of  their  opinions.  The  most 
exquisite  art  of  a  poetical  coloring  can  produce  no  illusion  when 
it  is  employed  to  represent  that  which  is  at  once  perceived  to.  be 
incongruous  and  absurd.  Milton  wrote  in  an  age  of  philosophers 
and  theologians.  It  was  necessary,  therefore,  for  him  to  abstain 
from  giving  such  a  shock  to  their  understandings  as  might  break 
the  charm  which  it  was  his  object  to  throw  over  their  imagina- 
tions. This  is  the  real  explanation  of  the  indistinctness  and  in- 
consistency with  which  he  has  often  been  reproached.  Dr.  John- 
son acknowledges  that  it  was  absolutely  necessary  for  him  to 
clothe  his  spirits  with  material  forms.  "'But,"  says  he,  "he 
should  have  secured  the  consistency  of  his  system  by  keeping 
immateriality  out  of  sight,  and  seducing  the  reader  to  drop  it  from 
his  thoughts."  This  is  easily  said;  but  what  if  he  could  not 
seduce  the  reader  to  drop  it  from  his  thoughts  ?  What  if  the 
contrary  opinion  had  taken  so  full  a  possession  of  the  minds  of 
men  as  to  leave  no  room  even  for  the  quasi-belief  which  poetry 
requires  ?  Such  we  suspect  to  have  been  the  case.  It  was  impos- 
sible for  the  poet  to  adopt  altogether  the  material  or  the  immate- 
rial system.  He  therefore  took  his  stand  on  the  debatable  ground. 


342  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

He  left  the  whole  in  ambiguity.  He  has  doubtless,  by  so  doing, 
hiid  himself  open  to  the  charge  >  of  inconsistency;  but,  though 
philosophically  in  the  wrong,  we  can  not  but  believe  that  he  was 
poetically  in  the  right.  This  task,  which  almost  any  other  writer 
would  have  found  impracticable,  was  easy  to  him.  The  peculiar 
art  which  he  possessed,  of  communicating  his  meaning  circuitously, 
through  a  long  succession  of  associated  ideas,  and  of  intimating 
more  than  he  expressed,  enabled  him  to  disguise  those  incongrui- 
ties which  he  could  not  avoid. 

Poetry  which  relates  to  the  beings  of  another  world  ought  to 
be  at  once  mysterious  and  picturesque.  That  of  Milton  is  so. 
That  of  Dante  is  picturesque,  indeed,  beyond  any  that  was  ever 
written.  Its  effect  approaches  to  that  produced  by  the  pencil 
or  the  chisel ;  but  it  is  picturesque  to  the  exclusion  of  all  mys- 
tery. This  is  a  fault,  indeed,  on  the  right  side,  —  a  fault  insep- 
arable from  the  plan  of  his  poem,  which,  as  we  have  already 
observed,  rendered  the  utmost  accuracy  of  description  necessarv. 
Still  it  is  a  fault.  His  supernatural  agents  excite  an  interest ; 
but  it  is  not  the  interest  which  is  proper  to  supernatural  agents. 
We  feel  that  we  could  talk  with  his  ghosts  and  demons  with- 
out any  emotions  of  unearthly  awe.  We  could,  like  Don  Juan, 
ask  them  to  supper,  and  eat  heartily  in  their  company.  His 
angels  are  good  men  with  wings ;  his  devils  are  spiteful, 
ugly  executioners;  his  dead  men  are  merely  living  men  in 
strange  situations.  The  scene  which  passes  between  the  poet 
and  Facinata  is  justly  celebrated  :  still  Facinata  in  the  burning 
tomb  is  exactly  what  Facinata  would  have  been  at  an  auto-cfci-fe. 
Nothing  can  be  more  touching  than  the  first  interview  of  .Dante 
and  Beatrice;  yet  what  is  it  but  a  lovely  woman  chiding  with 
sweet  austere  composure  the  lover  for  whose  affections  she  is 
grateful,  but  whose  vices  she  reprobates?  The  feelings  which 
give  the  passage  its  charm  would  suit  the  streets  of  Florence  as 
well  as  the  summit  of  the  Mount  of  Purgatory.  The  spirits  of 
Milton  are  unlike  those  of  almost  all  other  writers.  His  fiends,  in 
particular,  are  wonderful  creations.  They  are  not  metaphysical 
abstractions;  they  are  not  wicked  men  ;  they  are  not  ugly  beasts  ; 
they  have  no  horns,  no  tails,  none  of  the  fee-faw-fum  of  Tas>o 
and  Klopstock  :  they  have  just  enough  in  common  with  human 
nature  to  be  intelligible  to  human  beings.  Their  characters  are, 
like  their  forms,  marked  by  a  certain  dim  resemblance  to  those  of 
men,  but  exaggerated  to  gigantic  dimensions,  and  veiled  in  myste- 
rious gloom. 

Perhaps  the  gods  and  demons  of  JEschylus  may  best  bear 
a  comparison  with  the  angels  and  devils  of  Milton.  The  style 
of  the  Athenian  had,  as  we  have  remarked,  something  of  the 
vagueness  and  tenor  of  the  Oriental  character;  and  the  same 


HISTORY,    BIOGRAPHY,    AND   TRAVEL.  343 

peculiarity  may  be  traced  in  his  mythology.  It  has  nothing  of 
the  amenity  and  elegance  which  we  generally  Jind  in  the  super- 
stitions of  Greece.  All  is  rugged,  barbaric,  and  colossal.  His 
legends  seem  to  harmonize  less  with  the  fragrant  groves  and 
graceful  porticos  in  which  his  countrymen  paid  their  vows  to,  the 
God  of  Light,  and  Goddess  of  Desire,  than  with  those  huge  and 
grotesque  labyrinths  of  eternal  granite  in  which  Egypt  enshrined 
her  mystic  Osiris,  or  in  which  Hindostan  still  bows  down  to  her 
seven-headed  idols.  His  favorite  gods  are  those  of  the  elder 
generations,  —  the  sons  of  heaven  and  earth,  compared  with  whom 
Jupiter  himself  was  a  stripling  and  an  upstart,  —  the  gigantic 
Titans,  and  the  inexorable  Furies.  Foremost  among  his  creations 
of  this  class  stands  Prometheus,  half  fiend,  half  redeemer,  the 
friend  of  man,  the  sullen  and  implacable  enemy  of  heaven.  He 
bears,  undoubtedly,  a  considerable  resemblance  to  the  Satan  of 
Milton.  In  both,  we  find  the  same  impatience  of  control,  the 
same  ferocity,  the  same  unconquerable  pride.  In  both  characters, 
also,  are  mingled,  though  in  very  different  proportions,  some  kind 
and  generous  feelings.  Prometheus,  however,  is  hardly  super- 
human enough.  He  talks  too  much  of  his  chains  and  his  uneasy 
posture;  he  is  rather  too  much  depressed  and  agitated;  his 
resolution  seems  to  depend  on  the  knowledge  which  he  possesses 
that  he  holds  the  fate  of  his  torturer  in  his  hands,  and  that  the 
hour  of  his  release  will  surely  come.  But  Satan  is  a  creature  of 
another  sphere.  The  might  of  his  intellectual  nature  is  victorious 
over  the  extremity  of  pain.  Amidst  agonies  which  can  not  be 
conceived  without  horror,  he  deliberates,  resolves,  and  even  exults. 
Against  the  sword  of  Michael,  against  the  thunder  of  Jehovah, 
against  the  flaming  lake  and  the  marl  burning  with  solid  fire, 
against  the  prospect  of  an  eternity  of  tinintermittent  miserj^,  his 
spirit  bears  up  unbroken,  resting  on  its  own  innate  energies, 
requiring  no  support  from  any  thing  external,  nor  even  from  hope 
itself! 


HISTORY,    BIOGRAPHY,    AND    Til  A  V  EL. 

JAMES  ANTHONY  FROUDE.  — 1818.  "  History  of  England  from  the  Fall  of  Wolsey 
to  the  Death  of  Elizabeth."  Materially  qualifies  the  generally-received  opinions  of 
several  historical  characters. 

HKNHY  THOMAS  BUCKLE.  — 1823-1862.  "  History  of  Civilization,"  two  vols.;  a 
most  remarkable  attempt  to  write  history  in  the  order  of  its  scientific  growth.  Not 
completed. 

Sir  ARCHIBALD  ALISON.  — 1792.  "  The  History  of  Europe  from  the  Commence- 
ment of  the  French  Revolution  to  the  Restoration  of  the  Bourbons,"  ten  vols.;  ;' To 
Accession  of  Louis  Napoleon,"  eight  vols.;  also  "  A  Life  of  Marlborough." 


344  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

GEORGE  GROTE.  — 1794.  "  The  History  of  Greece  to  the  Death  of  Alexander  the 
Great,"  —  a  work  of  the  highest  merit. 

THOMAS  ARNOLD.  — 1795-1842.  Head  master  of  Rugby.  Author  of  "  A  Frag- 
ment of  Roman  History,"  u  Sermons,"  and  "  Historical  Lectures." 

CONNOP  THIRLWALL.  —  1797.     "  History  of  Greece." 

Sir  FRANCIS  PALO  RAVE.  — 1788-1861.  "The  History  of  the  Anglo-Saxons;" 
"  The  Rise  and  Progress  of  the  English  Commonwealth; "  "  The  History  of  Nor- 
mandy and  of  England." 

JOHN  GIBSON  LOCKHART.  — 1793-1854.  "  Life  of  Sir  Walter  Scott,"  his  father- 
in-law;  "  Valerius"  and  u  Reginald  Dalton,"  novels;  Spanish  ballads. 

.JOHN  FORSTKR.  — 1812.  "Lives  of  the  Statesmen  of  the  Commonwealth,"  and 
"Lite  of  Goldsmith." 

GEORGE  HENRY  LEWES.  — 1817.  "Life  of  Goethe;"  "  A  Biographical  History 
of  Philosophy ;  "  '•  Life  of  Robespierre ;  "  "  The  Physiology  of  Common  Life ;  "  "  The 
Spanish  Drama,"  and  other  works. 

DAVID  MASSON.  — 1822.  "British  Novelists  and  their  Styles;"  "Life  and 
Times  of  John  Milton." 

SAMUEL  LAING.  —  "A  Residence  in  Norway;"  "A  Tour  in  Sweden;"  "Notes 
of  a  Traveler." 

DAVID  LIVINGSTONE.  — 1817.     "  Missionary  Travels  in  South  Africa." 

AUSTEN  HENRY  LAYARD. — 1817.  "  Nineveh  and  its  Remains;"  "Discoveries 
in  the  Ruins  of  Nineveh  and  Babylon." 

RICHARD  FORD.  —  1796-1858.  Murray's  "Handbook  for  Spain;"  "Gatherings 
from  Spain." 

GEORGE  BORROW.  — 1803.  "The  Bible  in  Spain;"  "  Zincali,  or  the  Gypsies  in 
Spain ;  "  •'  Lavengro,  or  the  Scholar,  the  Gypsy,  and  the  Priest,"  and  Sequel;  "  The 
Romany  Rye." 

ALEXANDER  W.  KINGLAKE.  — 1811.     "  Eotheu,"  — travels  in  the  East. 

Sir  JAMES  EMERSON  TENNENT.  — 1804.  "Modern  Greece;"  "Belgium;" 
"Wine;"  and  "Ceylon." 

Sir  FRANCIS  HEAD.  — 1793.     "  Pampas  and  the  Andes,"  and  other  works. 

CHARLES  WATERTON.  —  "  Wanderings  in  South  America;  "  "  Antilles;  "  &c. 

Capt.  SHERRARD  OSRORNE. — 1820.  "Stray  Leaves  from  an  Arctic  Journal;" 
"A  Cruise  in  Japanese  Waters." 

Dr.  RAE,  Sir  ROBERT  M'CLURE,  and  Sir  LEOPOLD  M'CLINTOCK,  are  eminent  for 
arctic  travel  and  discovery. 

HENRY  D.  INGLIS,  Sir  JOHN  BOWRTXG,  ELIOT  WARBUKTON,  JOHN  FRANCIS 
DAVIS,  WINGROVE  COOKE,  LAURENCE  l>LiPHA.NT,  and  Rev.  JOSIAS  PORTER,  have 
all  written  interesting  accounts  of  travel. 

Lord  CAMPBELL.  — 1799-1861.  "  Lives  of  the  Lord  Chancellors ;  "  "  Lives  of  the 
Chief  Justices." 

CHARLES  KNIGHT.  — 1790.  "Old  Printer  and  Modem  Press ;"."  Popular 
History  of  England;  "  edition  of  Shakspeare. 

ROBERT  VAUGHN.  — 1798.  "  John  de  Wycliflfe ;  "  "  England  under  the  Stuarts ;  " 
"  Revolutions  of  English  History." 

AGNES  and  ELIZABETH  STRICKLAND.  —  "  Lives  of  the  Queens  of  England  and 
Scotland." 

WALTER  F.  HOOK.— "Ecclesiastical  Biography;"  "Church  Diet;"  "Arch- 
bishops of  Canterbury." 

ROBERT  CHAMBERS.  — 1802.  "Traditions  of  E  linburgh ;""  Domestic  Annals 
of  Scotland;"  and  "  History  of  the  Rebellion  of  1745,  1746." 

COSMO  INXES.  —  "  Scotland  in  the  Middle  Ages;  "  "  Sketches  of  Early  Scottish 
History." 

Earl  STANHOPE. —  1805.  "Life  or  IVharins;"  "  Wnrof  Succession  in  Spain;" 
"  History  of  England  from  the  Peace  of  Utrecht  to  the  Peace  of  Versailles." 


THEOLOGIANS,    SCHOLARS,   ESSAYISTS,   ETC.          345 

Sir  GEORGE  C.  LEWIS. — 1806.    "The  Credibility  of  Early  Roman  History;" 
"Influence  of  Authority  on  Opinions." 

JOHN  HILL  BURTON.  — 1809.    "Life  of  Hume;"  "History  of  Scotland;"  and 
others. 

THOMAS  A.  TEOLLOPE.  —  "Girlhood  of  Catherine  de  Medici;"  "A  Decade  of 
Italian  Women." 

WILLIAM  H.  RUSSELL.  — 1816.    "  Letters  on  Crimean  War;  "  "  Diary  in  India; " 
and  .special  correspondent  of  "The  London  Times." 

GEORGE  WILSON.  HANNA. 

WILLIAM  STIRLING.  MUIRHEAD. 

WILLIAM  H.  DIXON.  SMILES. 

GEORGE  FINLAY.  CARRUTHERS. 

JAMES  WHITE.  Miss  PARDOE. 

EYRE  CROWE.  Miss  FREER. 

And  many  others  who  have  written  biographies  or  histories  of  short  periods  or  of 
a  local  character. 


THEOLOGIANS  AND    SCHOLARS. 

THOMAS  CHALMERS.  — 1780-1847.  "Natural  Theology;"  "Evidences  of 
Christianity;"  "  Lectures  on  the  Romans,"  and  other  eloquent  discourses,  —  in  all, 
thirty-four  vols. 

ISAAC  TAYLOR.  — 1787.  "  Natural  History  of  Enthusiasm ; "  "Ancient  Christi- 
anity." 

WILLIAM  MURE.  — 1799.  "  Critical  History  of  the  Language  and  Literature  of 
Ancient  Greece." 

THOMAS  GUTHRIE.  J.  W.  DONALDSON. 

HENRY  ROGERS.  RALPH  WARDLAW. 

JOHN  BIRD  SUMNER.  THOMAS  H.  HORNE. 

JOHN  BROWN.  HUGH  M'NEILE. 

JULIUS  HARE.  R.  S.  CANDLISH. 

JOHN  KITTO.  RICHARD  C.  TRENCH. 

WILLIAM  E.  GLADSTONE.  HENRY  ALFORD. 

HENRY  RAWLINSON.  WILLIAM  A.  BUTLER. 

ARTHUR  P.  STANLEY.  ROBERT  A.  THOMPSON. 

JOHN  TULLOCII.  JOHN  CAIRO. 

NORMAN  M'LEon.  EDWARD  PUSEY. 

JOHN  H.  NEWMAN.  FRANCIS  NEWMAN. 

BENJAMIN  JOWETT.  J.  F.  D.  MAURICE. 

JAMES  MARTI NEAU.  Cardinal  WIHEMAN. 

Bishop  COLENSO.  GOLDWIN  SMITH. 


ESSAYISTS   AND    CRITICS. 

JOHN  WILSON.  — 1785-1854.  Author  of  "Noctes  Ambrosianas."  He  was  the 
"  Christopher  North  "  of  "  Blackwood." 

ANXA  JAMESON.  — 1796-1860.  "Characteristics  of  Women;"  "Sacred  and 
Legendary  Art;"  and  others. 

HARRIET    MARTINEAU.  — 1802.      "Society  in   America;"    "  Deerbrook ;  "  and 
The  Hour  and  the  Man;  "  "  The  History  of  the  Thirty- Years'  Peace." 


34G  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

SARAH  ELLIS.  —  "  The  Women  of  England,"  and  several  others. 

AUTIIUK  HELPS.—  "  Friends  in  Council,"  and  "  Companions  of  my  Solitude." 

JOHN  Rrsiux. 1^19.     The  very  popular  author  of  "  Modern  Painters,"  "  The 

Seven  Lamps  of  Architecture,"  ami  "  Tiie  Stones  of  Venice." 

JOHN  PAYNE  COLLIER.  JOHN  STERLING. 

WILLIAM  MAGIXX.  MARY  C.  CLARKE. 

WILLIAM  and  MARY  Howrrr.  SAMTKL  PHILLIPS. 

GE<»K<;K    GlLFILLAX.  GKOKGH    BlUMLEY. 

ALEXANDER  DYCE. 

And  many  others,  all  of  whom  have  written  one  or  more  volumes  worthy  the  pupil's 
attention. 


SCIENCE. 

Sir  DAVID  BREWSTER.  — 1781-1868.  "Optics;"  "More  Worlds  than  One;" 
and  "  Life  of  Sir  Isaac  Newton."  Twenty  years  writing  "Edinburgh  Encyclo- 
paedia." 

RICHARD  WHATELY.  — 1787-1863.  "  Logic ; "  "  Rhetoric ;  "  "  Political  Econo- 
my," and  other  philosophical  works. 

Sir  WILLIAM  HAMILTON.  — 1788-1856.     "Distinguished  Metaphysicians." 

Sir  RODERICK  MUKCIIISOX.  —  1792.     "  Geology  of  Russia,"  and  "  Siluria." 

WILLIAM  WHEWELL.  — 1795.  "  History  of  Philosophy  of  the  Inductive  Sciences," 
and  o.ie  of  "  The  Bridgewater  Treatises." 

MARY  SOMERVILLE.  —  "  The  Connection  of  the  Physical  Sciences;"  "Physical 
Geug.  apliy." 

HUGH  MILLER.  —  1802-1856.  Distinguished  geologist.  Author  of  several 
popular  works. 

JOHN  STUART  MILL.  — 1806.  "  Logic ;  "  "  Political  Economy ;  "  and  "  Liberty." 
One  of  the  ablest  men  of  the  time. 

WILLIAM  SMITH. — 1769-1839.     Geology. 

WILLIAM  BCCKLAXD. —  1784-1856.     Geology. 

GIDEON  MANTEL.  — 1788-1852.     Geology. 

DIOXYSIUS  LARDXER.  —  1793-1859.     "  Museum  of  Science,"  and  "  Lectures." 

MICHAEL  FARADAY.  — 1794-1867.     Distinguished  chemist. 

Sir  CHARLES  LYELL.  — 1797.     Several  geological  works. 

RICHARD  OWEN.  —  Zoologist. 

JAMES  FEKRIER.  HERBERT  SPENCER. 

Dr.  MANSELL.  CHARLES  DARWIN. 

MOKELL.  J.  1).  FORUMS. 

M-Cosii.  TYXDALL. 

ALEXANDER  BAIN.  ROSCOE. 


THOMAS   CARLYLE.  347 

THOMAS    CARLYLE. 

BORN  1795. 

A  remarkable  essayist  of  a  truly  original  style.  A  disjointed  collection  of  short 
apostrophes  to  the  varied  elements  of  French  society  about  the  time  of  and  during 
the  French  Revolution,  he  calls  a  history  of  that  period.  "The  Letters  and 
Speeches  of  Oliver  Cromwell,  with  Elucidations,"  are  more  connected,  and  give  a 
vivid  picture  of  the  man  and  the  times. 

PRINCIPAL  WOKKS. 

"Sartor  Resartus,"  "Latter-day  Pamphlet,"  "  Frederick  the  Great,"  and  several 
others  of  the  same  vigorous,  sledge-hammer  style. 


OLIVER    CROMWELL. 
ANTI-DRYASDUST. 

WHAT  and  how  great  are  the  interests  which  connect  them- 
selves with  the  hope  that  England  may  yet  attain  to  some  practical 
belief  and  understanding  of  its  history  duriiig  the  seventeenth 
century,  need  not  be  insisted  oil  at  present ;  such  hope  being  still 
very  distant,  very  uncertain.  We  have  wandered  far  away  from 
the  ideas  which  guided  us  in  that  century,  and  indeed  which  had 
guided  us  in  all  preceding  centuries,  but  of  which  that  century 
was  the  ultimate  manifestation  :  we  have  wandered  very  far  ;  and 
must  endeavor  to  return,  and  connect  ourselves  therewith  again. 
It  is  with  other  feelings  than  those  of  poor  peddling  dilettanteism, 
other  aims  than  the  writing  of  successful -or  unsuccessful  publica- 
tions, that  an  earnest  man  occupies  himself  in  those  dreary  prov- 
inces of  the  dead  and  buried.  The  last  glimpse  of  Godlike 
vanishing  from  this  England;  conviction  and  veracity  giving 
place  to  hollow  cant  and  formalism  ;  antique  "  Reign  of  God," 
which  all  true  men  in  their  several  dialects  and  modes  have 
always  striven  for,  giving  place  to  modern  "  Reign  of  the  No-God," 
whom  men  name  Devil,  —  this,  in  its  multitudinous  meanings  and 
results,  is  a  sight  to  create  reflections  in  the  earnest  man.  One 
wishes  there  were  a  history  of  English  Puritanism,  the  last  of  all 
our  heroisms,  but  sees  small  prospect  of  such  a  thing  at 
present. 

"  Few  nobler  heroisms,"  says  a  well-known  writer  long  occupied 
on  this  subject,  "at  bottom,  perhaps  no  nobler  heroism,  ever 
transacted  itself  on  this  earth ;  and  it  lies  as  good  as  lost  to  us, 
overwhelmed  under  such  an  avalanche  of  human  stupidities  as  no 
heroism  before  ever  did.  Intrinsically  and  extrinsically,  it  may 
be  considered  inaccesible  to  these  generations.  Intrinsically,  the 


348  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

spiritual  purport  of  it  has  become  inconceivable,  incredible,  to  the 
modern  mind ;  extrinsically,  the  documents  and  records  of  it, 
scattered  waste  as  a  shoreless  chaos,  are  not  legible.  They  lie 
there,  printed,  written,  to  the  extent  of  tons  and  square  miles,  as 
shot-rubbish ;  unedited,  unsorted,  not  so  much  as  indexed ;  full 
of  every  conceivable  confusion;  yielding  light  to  very  few; 
yielding  darkness  in  several  sorts  to  very  many.  Dull  pedantry, 
conceited  idle  dilettanteism,  prurient  stupidity  in  what  shape  so- 
ever, is  darkness,  and  not  light.  There  are  from  thirty  to  fifty 
thousand  unread  pamphlets  of  the  Civil  War  in  the  British 
Museum  alone, — huge  piles  of  moldering  wreck,  wherein,  at  the 
rate  of  perhaps  one  pennyweight  per  ton,  lie  things  memorable. 
They  lie  preserved  there,  waiting  happier  days:  under  present 
conditions,  they  can  not,  except  for  idle  purposes,  for  dilettante 
excerpts  and  such  like,  be  got  examined.  The  Rush  worths, 
Whitlockes,  Nalsons,  Thurloes,  —  enormous  folios  these,  and  many 
others :  they  have  been  printed,  and  some  of  them  again  printed, 
but  never  yet  edited,  —  edited  as  you  edit  wagon-loads  of  broken 
bricks  and  dry  mortar,  simply  by  tumbling  up  the  wagon.  Xot 
one  of  these  monstrous  old  volumes  has  so  much  as  an  available 
index.  It  is  the  general  rule  of  editing  on  this  matter.  If  your 
editor  correct  the  press,  it  is  an  honorable  distinction  to  him. 
Those  dreary  old  records  were  compiled  at  first  bj*  human  insight 
in  part,  and  in  great  part  by  human  stupidity  withal ;  but  then 
it  was  by  stupidity  in  a  laudable,  diligent  state,  and  doing  its 
best,  which  was  something :  and,  alas !  they  have  been  suc- 
cessively elaborated  by  human  stupidity  in  the  idle  state,  falling 
idler  and  idler,  and  only  pretending  to  be  diligent,  whereby  now, 
for  us,  in  these  late  days,  they  have  grown  very  dim  indeed.  To 
Dryasdust  printing  societies,  and  such  like,  they  afford  a  sorrowr- 
ful  kind  of  pabulum  :  but,  for  all  serious  purposes,  they  are  as  if 
non-extant;  might  as  well,  if  matters  are  to  rest  as  thej-  are,  not 
have  been  written  or  printed  at  all.  The  sound  of  them  is  not  a 
voice,  conveying  knowledge  or  memorial  of  any  earthly  or  heavenly 
thing  :  it  is  a  widespread,  inarticulate,  slumberous  mumblement, 
issuing  as  if  from  the  lake  of  eternal  sleep;  craving  for  oblivion, 
for  abolition,  and  honest  silence,  as  a  blessing  in  comparison. 

"This,  then,"  continues  our  impatient  friend,  "is  the  Elysium 
we  English  have  provided  for  our  heroes  !  —  the  Rushworthian 
Elysium ;  dreariest  continent  of  shot-rubbish  the  eye  ever  sa\v. 
Confusion  piled  on  confusion  to  your  utmost  horizon's  edge ; 
obscure  in  lurid  twilight  as  of  the  shadow  of  death  ;  trackless, 
without  index,  without  finger-post,  or  mark  of  any  human 
foregoer ;  where  your  human  footstep,  if  you  are  still  human, 
echoes  bodeful  through  the  gaunt  solitude,  peopled  only  by 
somnambulant  pedants,  dilettanti,  and  doleful  creatures;  by 


THOMAS   CARLYLE.  349 

phantasms,  errors,  inconceivabilities  ;  by  nightmares,  pasteboard 
norroys,  griffins,  wiverns,  and  chimeras  dire.  There,  all  van- 
quished, overwhelmed  under  such  waste  lumber-mountains,  —  the 
wreck  and  dead  ashes  of  some  six  unbelieving  generations,  —  does 
the  age  of  Cromwell  and  his  Puritans  lie  hidden  from  us.  This 
is  what  we,  for  our  share,  have  been  able  to  accomplish  toward 
keeping  our  heroic  ones  in  memory.  By  way  of  sacred  poet,  they 
have  found  voluminous  Dryasdust,  and  his  collections  and  philo- 
sophical hi  stories. 

u  To  Dryasdust,  who  wishes  merely  to  compile  torpedo  histories 
of  the  philosophical  or  other  sorts,  and  gain  immortal  laurels  for 
himself  by  writing  about  it  and  about  it,  all  this  is  sport  5  but  to  us 
who  struggle  piously,  passionately,  to  behold,  if  but  in  glimpses,  the 
faces  of  our  vanished  fathers,  it  is  death.  O  Dryasdust,  my  volu- 
minous friend !  had  human  stupidity  continued  in  the  diligent  state, 
think  you  it  had  ever  come  to  this  ?  Surely,  at  least,  you  might  have 
made  an  index  for  these  huge  books !  Even  your  genius,  had  you 
been  faithful,  was  adequate  to  that.  Those  thirty  thousand  or  fifty 
thousand  old  newspapers  a-nd  pamphlets  of  the  King's  Library  — 
it  is  you,  my  voluminous  friend,  that  should  have  sifted  them 
many  long  years  ago.  Instead  of  droning  out  these  melancholy 
skepticisms,  constitutional  philosophies,  torpedo  narratives,  3-011 
should  have  sifted  those  old  stacks  of  pamphlet-matter  for  us,  and 
have  had  the  metal  grains  lying  here  accessible,  and  the  dross- 
heaps  lying  there  avoidable:  you  had  done  the  human  memory 
a  service  thereby :  some  human  remembrance  of  this  matter  had 
been  more  possible." 

Certainly  this  description  does  not  want  for  emphasis;  but  all 
ingenuous  inquirers  into  the  past  will  say  there  is  too  much  truth 
in  it.  Nay,  in  addition  to  the  sad  state  of  our  historical  books, 
and  what,  indeed,  is  fundamentally  the  cause  and  origin  of  that, 
our  common  spiritual  notions,  if  any  notion  of  ours  may  still  de- 
serve to  be  called  spiritual,  are  fatal  to  a  right  understanding  of 
that  seventeenth  century.  The  Christian  doctrines,  which  then 
dwelt  alive  in  every  heart,  have  now,  in  a  manner,  died  out  of  all 
hearts  (very  mournful  to  behold),  and  are  not  the  guidance  of 
this  world  any  more.  Nay,  worse  still,  the  cant  of  them  does  yet 
dwell  alive  with  us  (little  doubting  that  it  is  cant)  ;  in  which 
fatal  intermediate  state  the  eternal  sacredness  of  this  universe 
itself,  of  this  human  life  itself,  has  fallen  dark  to  the  most  of  us; 
and  we  think  that,  too,  a  cant  arid  a  creed.  Thus  the  old  names 
suggest  new  things  to  us ;  not  august  and  divine,  but  hypocriti- 
cal, pitiable,  detestable.  The  old  names  arid  similitudes  of  belief 
still  circulate  from  tongue  to  tongue,  though  now  in  such  a  ghastly 
condition  ;  not  as  commandments  of  the  living  God,  which  we 
must  do,  or  perish  eternally  ;  alas !  no,  —  as  something  very  differ- 


350  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

ent  from  that.  Here  properly  lies  the  grand  unintelligibility  of  the 
seventeenth  century  for  us.  From  this  source  has  proceeded  our 
maltreatment  of  it,  our  ruiseditings,  miswritings,  and  all  the  other 
'•  avalanche  of  human  stupidity,"'  M  herewith,  as  our  impatient 
friend  complains,  we  have*  allowed  it  to  be  overwhelmed.  We 
have  allowed  some  other  things  to  be  overwhelmed.  Would  to 
Heaven  that  were  the  worst  fruit  we  had  gathered  from  our  unbe- 
lief and  our  cant  of  belief !  Our  impatient  friend  continues  :  — 

"I  have  known  nations  altogether  destitute  of  printers'  types 
and  learned  appliances,  with  nothing  better  than  old  songs,  monu- 
mental stone-heaps,  and  quipo-thrums  to  keep  record  by,  who 
had  truer  memory  of  their  memorable  things  than  this.  Truer 
memory,  I  say  j  for  at  least  the  voice  of  their  past  heroisms,  if 
indistinct,  and  all  awry  as  to  dates  and  statistics,  was  still  melo- 
dious to  those  nations.  The  body  of  it  might  be  dead  enough  ; 
but  the  soul  of  it,  partly  harmonized,  put  in  real  accordance  with 
the  ( eternal  melodies,'  was  alive  to  all  hearts,  and  coifld  not  die. 
The  memory  of  their  ancient  brave  ones  did  not  rise  like  a  hide- 
ous, huge  leaden  vapor,  an  amorphous  emanation  of  chaos,  like  a 
petrifying  Medusa  specter,  on  those  poor  nations :  no !  but  like  a 
Heaven's  apparition,  which  it  was,  it  still  stood  radiant,  benefi- 
cent, before  all  hearts,  calling  all  hearts  to  emulate  it;  and  the 
recognition  of  it  was  a  psalm  and  song.  These  things  will  re- 
quire to  be  practically  meditated  by  and  by.  Is  human  writing, 
then,  the  art  of  burying  heroisms  and  highest  facts  in  chaos,  so 
that  no  man  shall  henceforth  contemplate  them  without  horror 
and  aversion,  and  danger  of  locked-jaw?  What  does  Dryasdust 
consider  that  he  was  born  for  ?  that  paper  and  ink  were  made 
for? 

"  It  is  very  notable,  and  leads  to  endless  reflections,  how  the 
Greeks  had  their  living  Iliad  where  we  have  such  a  deadly,  inde- 
scribable Cromwelliad.  The  old  Pantheon,  home  of  all  the  gods, 
has  become  a  peerage-book,  with  black  and  white  surplice ;  con- 
troversies superadded,  not  unsuitably.  The  Greeks  had  their 
Homers,  Hesiods,  where  we  have  our  Rymers.  Rush  worths,  our 
Norroys,  Garter-Kings,  and  Bishops  Cobweb.  Very  notable.  I  say. 
By  the  genius,  wants,  and  instincts  and  opportunities,  of  the  one 
people,  striving  to  keep  themselves  in  mind  of  what  was  memora- 
ble, there  had  fashioned  itself  in  the  effort  of  successive  centuries 
a  Collin's  peerage,  improved  by  Sir  Egerton  Brydges.  By  their 
Pantheons  ye  shall  know  them  !  Have  not  we  English  a  talent 
for  silence?  Oar  very  speech  and  printed  speech,  such  a  force  of 
torpor  dwelling  in  it,  is  properly  a  higher  power  of  silence.  There 
is  no  silence  like  the  speech  you  can  not  listen  to  without  danger 
of  locked-jaw.  Given  a  divine  heroism,  to  smother  it  well  in 
human  dullness,  to  touch  it  with  the  mace  of  death,  so  that  no 


THOMAS  CARLYLE.  351 

human  soul  shall  henceforth  recognize  it  for  a  heroism,  but  all 
souls  shall  fly  from  it  as  from  a  chaotic  torpor,  an  insanity  and 
horror,  —  I  will  back  our  English  genius  against  the  \voiid  in  such 
a  problem  ! 

"Truly  we  have  done  great  things  in  that  sort,  down  from 
Norman  William  all  the  way,  and  earlier;  and  to  the  English 
mind  at  tins  hour  the  past  history  of  England  is  little  other  than 
a  dull,  dismal  labyrinth,  in  which  the  English  mind,  if  candid, 
will  confess  that  it  has  found  of  knowable  (meaning  even  con- 
ceivable), of  lovable,  or  memorable,  next  to  nothing.  As  if  we 
had  done  no  brave  thing  at  all  in  this  earth  !  As  if  not  men,  but 
nightmares,  had  written  of  our  history !  The  English,  one  can 
discern  withal,  have  been,  perhaps,  as  brave  a  people  as  their 
neighbors,  —  perhaps,  for  valor  of  action  and  true  hard  labor  in  this 
earth,  since  brave  peoples  were  first  made  in  it,  there  has  been  none 
braver  anywhere  or  anywhen  ;  but  also,  it  must  be  owned,  in  stu- 
pidity of  speech  they  have  no  fellow.  What  can  poor  English 
heroisms  do  in  such  case  but  fall  torpid  into  the  domain  of  ihe 
nightmares  ?  For,  of  a  truth,  stupidity  is  strong,  most  strong.  As 
the  poet  Schiller  sings,  'Against  stupidity  the  very  gods  fight 
unvictorious.'  There  is  in  it  a  placid  inexhaustibility,  a  calm,  vis- 
cous infinitude,  which  will  baffle  even  the  gods;  which  will  say 
calmly,  '  Try  all  your  lightnings  here ;  see  whether  I  can  not 
quench  them  ! ' 

'Mit  der  Dummheit  kampfen  Cotter  selbst  vergebens.'" 

Has  our  friend  forgotten  that  it  is  destiny  withal,  as  well  as 
"stupidity;"  that  such  is  the  case,  more  or  less,  with  human  his- 
tory always?  By  very  nature,  it  is  a  labyrinth  and  chaos,  this 
that  we  call  human  history;  an  abatis  of  trees  and  brushwood;  a 
world-wide  jungle,  at  once  growing  and  dying.  Under  the  green 
foliage  and  blossoming  fruit-trees  of  to-day,  there  lies  rotting, 
slower  or  faster,  the  forests  of  all  other  years  and  days.  Some 
have  rotted  fast  (plants  of  annual  growth),  and  are  long  since  quite 
gone  to  inorganic  mold ;  others  are  like  the  aloe,  —  growth  that 
lasts  a  thousand  or  three  thousand  years.  You  will  find  them  in 
all  stages  of  decay  and  preservation,  down  deep  to  the  begin- 
nings of  the  history  of  man.  Think  where  our  alphabetic  letters 
came  from,  where  our  speech  itself  came  from,  the  cookeries  we 
live  by,  the  masonries  we  lodge  under  !  You  will  find  fibrous 
roots  of  this  day's  occurrences  among  the  dust  of  Cadmus  and 
Trismegistus,  of  Tubal  Cain  and  Triptolemus :  the  tap-roots  of 
them  are  with  Father  Adam  himself,  and  the  cinders  of  Eve's  first 
fire !  At  bottom,  there  is  no  perfect  history :  there  is  none  such 
conceivable. 

All  past  centuries  have  rotted  down,  and  gone  confusedly  dumb 


352  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

and  quiet,  even  as  that  seventeenth  is  now  threatening  to  do. 
Histories  are  as  perfect  as  the  historian  is  wise,  and  is  gifted  with 
an  eye  and  a  soul;  for  the  leafy,  blossoming  Present  Time 
springs  from  the  whole  Past,  remembered  and  unrememberable, 
so  confusedly  as  we  say.  And  truly  the  art  of  history,  the  grand 
difference  between  a  Dryasdust  and  a  sacred  poet,  is  very  much 
even  this:  To  distinguish  well  what  does  still  reach  to  the  sur- 
face, and  is  alive  and  frondent  for  us ;  and  what  reaches  no  lon- 
ger to  the  surface,  but  inolders  safe  underground,  never  to  send 
forth  leaves  or  fruit  for  mankind  any  more.  Of  the  former  we 
shall  rejoice  to  hear:  to  hear  of  the  latter  will  be  an  affliction  to 
us ;  of  the  latter,  only  pedants  and  dullards,  and  disastrous  male- 
factors to  the  world,  will  find  good  to  speak.  By  wise  memory 
and  by  wise  oblivion,  it  lies  all  there.  Without  oblivion,  there 
is  no  remembrance  possible.  When  both  oblivion  and  memory 
are  wise  ;  when  the  general  soul  of  man  is  clear,  melodious,  true, — 
there  nv.iy  come  a  modern  Iliad  as  memorial  of  the  past :  when 
both  are  foolish,  and  the  general  soul  is  overclouded  with  confu- 
sions, with  uuveracities  and  discords,  there  is  a  "  Ituslnvorthian 
chaos.*' 

Let  Dryasdust  be  blamed,  beaten  with  stripes,  if  you  will ; 
but  let  it  be  with  pity,  with  blame  to  Fate  chiefly.  Alas !  when 
sacred  priests  are  arguing  about  "black  and  white  surplices," 
and  sacred  poets  have  long  professedly  deserted  truth,  and  gone 
a  wool-gathering  after  "ideals"  and  such  like,  what  can  you  ex- 
pect of  poor  secular  pedants  ?  The  labyrinth  of  history  must 
grow  ever  darker,  more  intricate  and  dismal ;  vacant  cargoes  of 
"ideals"  wiil  arrive  yearly,  to  be  cast  into  the  oven;  and  noble 
heroisms  of  fact,  given  up  to  Dryasdust,  will  be  buried  in  a  very 
disastrous  manner. 

But  the  thing  we  had  to  say  and  repeat  was  this.  —  that  Puri- 
tanism is  not  of  the  nineteenth  century,  hut  of  the  seventeenth; 
that  the  grand  unintelligibility  for  us  lies  there.  The  fast-day 
sermons  of  St.  Margaret's  Church,  Westminster,  in  spite  of 
printers,  are  all  grown  dumb.  In  long  rows  of  little  dumpy  quartos, 
gathered  from  the  bookstalls,  they  indeed  stand  here  bodily  be- 
fore us  :  by  human  volition  they  can  be  read,  but  not  by  any 
human  memory  remembered.  We  forget  them  as  soon  as  read  : 
they  have  become  a  weariness  to  the  soul  of  man.  They  are  dead 
and  gone,  —  they,  and  what  they  shadowed:  the  human  soul,  got 
into  other  latitudes,  can  not  no\v  give  harbor  to  them.  Alas !  and 
did  not  the  Houses  of  Parliament  listen  to  them  with  rapt  earnest- 
is  to  an  indisputable  message  from  Heaven  itself?  Learned 
and  painful  Dr.  Owen,  learned  and  painful  Dr.  Burgess.  Stephen 
Marshall,  Mr.  Spurstow,  Adoniram  Bytield.  Hugh  Peters,  Philip 
^Nye, — the  printer  has  done  for  them  what  he  could,  and  Mr. 


THOMAS   CARLYLE.  353 

Speaker  gave  them  the  thanks  of  the  House  ;  and  no  most  astonish- 
ing Review  article  of  our  day  can  have  half  such  "  brilliancy," 
such  potency,  half  such  virtue  for  producing  belief,  as  these  their 
poor  little  dumpy  quartos  once  had.  And,  behold  !  they  are  be- 
come inarticulate  men,  spectral;  and,  instead  of  speaking,  do  not 
screech  and  gibber !  All  Puritanism  is  grown  inarticulate :  its 
fervent  preachings,  prayings,  pamphleteerings,  are  sunk  into  one 
indiscriminate,  moaning  hum,  mournful  as  the  voice  of  subter- 
ranean winds.  So  much  falls  silent :  human  speech,  unless  by 
rare  chance  it  touch  on  the  "eternal  melodies,"  and  harmonize 
with  them ;  human  action,  interest,  if  divorced  from  the  eternal 
melodies,  —  sinks  all  silent.  The  fashion  of  this  world  passeth 
away. 

The  age  of  the  Puritans  is  not  extinct  only,  and  gone  away 
from  us ;  but  it  is  as  if  fallen  beyond  the  capabilities  of  Memory 
herself:  it  is  grown  unintelligible;  what  we  may  call  incredi- 
ble. Its  earnest  purport  awakens  now  no  resonance  in  *our 
frivolous  hearts.  We  understand,  not  even  in  imagination,  one 
of  a  thousand  of  us,  what  it  ever  could  have  meant.  It  seems 
delirious,  delusive:  the  sound  of  it  has  become  tedious  as  a  tale 
of  past  stupidities.  Not  the  body  of  heroic  Puritanism  only, 
which  was  bound  to  die,  but  the  soul  of  it  also,  which  was,  and 
should  have  been,  and  yet  shall  be,  immortal,  has  for  the  present 
passed  away.  As  Harrison  said  of  his  "  Banner  and  Lion "  of 
the  tribe  of  Judah,  "  Who  shall  rouse  him  up  ?  "  "  For  indis- 
putably," exclaims  the  above-cited  author  in  his  vehement  way, 
"this,  too,  was  a  heroism ;  and  the  soul  of  it  remains  part  of  the 
eternal  soul  of  things.  Here,  of  our  own  land  and  lineage,  in 
practical  English  shape,  were  heroes  on  the  earth  once  more, 
who  knew  in  every  fiber,  and  with  heroic  daring  laid  to  heart, 
that  an  Almighty  Justice  does  verily  rule  this  world;  that  it  is 
good  to  fight  on  God's  side,  and  bad  to.  fight  on  the  Devil's  side,  — 
the  essence  of  all  heroisms  and  veracities  that  have  been,  or  that 
will  be.  Perhaps  it  was  among  the  nobler  and  noblest  human 
heroisms,  this  Puritanism  of  ours  :  but  English  Dryasdust  could 
not  discern  it  for  a  heroism  at  all ;  as  the  Heaven's  lightning,  born 
of  its  black  tempest,  and  destructive  to  pestilential  mud-giants,  is 
mere  horror  and  terror  to  the  pedant  species  everywhere,  which, 
like  the  owl  in  any  sudden  brightness,  has  to  shut  its  eyes,  or 
hastily  procure  smoked  spectacles  on  an  improved  principle. 
Heaven's  brightness  would  be  intolerable  otherwise.  Only  your 
eagle  dares  look  direct  into  the  fire-radiance  ;  only  your  Schiller 
climbs  aloft  'to  discover  whence  the  lightning  is  coming.'  '  God- 
like men  love  lightning,'  says  one.  Our  old  Norse  fathers  called 
it  a  God, — the  sunny,  blue-eyed  Thor,  with  his  all-conquering 
thunder-hammer,  —  who  again,  in  calmer  season,  is  beneficent 


354  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

summer-heat.  Godless  men  love  it  not;  shriek  murder  when 
they  see  it,  shutting  their  eyes,  ami  hastily  procuring  smoked 
spectacles.  O  Dryasdust !  thou  art  great  and  thrice  great." 

"But,  alas!"  exclaims  he  elsewhere,  getting  his  eye  on  the  real 
nodus  of  the  matter,  "what  is  it,  all  this  Rush worthi an  inarticu- 
late rubbish-continent,  in  its  ghastly,  dim  twilight,  with  its 
haggard  wrecks  and  pale  shadows,  —  what  is  it  but  the  common 
kingdom  of  death  ?  This  is  what  we  call  death,  this  nioldering 
dumb  wilderness  of  things  once  alive.  Behold  here  the  final 
evanescence  of  formed  human  things  !  They  had  form  ;  but  they 
are  changing  into  sheer  formlessness:  ancient  human  speech 
itself  has  sunk  into  unintelligible  maundering.  This  is  the 
collapse,  the  etiolation  of  human  features  into  mold}7-  blank, 
dissolution,  progress  towards  utter  silence  and  disappearance, 
disastrous,  ever-deepening  dusk  of  gods  and  men  !  Why  has 
the  living  ventured  thither,  down  from  the  cheerful  light,  across 
the  Lethe  swamps  and  Tartarean  Phlegethons,  onwards  to  these 
baleful  halls  of  Dis  and  the  three-headed  Dog  ?  Some  destinjf  drives 
him.  It  is  his  sins,  I  suppose:  perhaps  it  is  his  love,  strong  as 
that  of  Orpheus  for  the  lost  Eurydice,  and  likely  to  have  no  better 
issue." 

Well,  it  would  seem  the  resuscitation  of  a  heroism  from  the 
past  time  is  no  easy  enterprise.  Our  impatient  friend  seems 
really  getting  sad.  We  can  well  believe  him.  There  needs 
pious  love  in  any  Orpheus  that  will  risk  descending  to  the 
gloomy  halls,  —  descending,  it  may  be,  and  fronting  Cerberus  and 
Dis  to  no  purpose:  for  it  oftenest  proves  so;  nay,  as  the  mythol- 
ogists  would  teach  us,  always.  Here  is  another  mythus : 
'•Balder,  the  white  Sun-God,"  say  our  Norse  skalds,  —  "Balder, 
beautiful  as  the  summer  dawn,  loved  of  gods  and  men,  was  dead. 
His  brother  Hermoder,  urged  by  his  mother's  tears  and  the  tears 
of  the  universe,  went  forth  to  seek  him.  He  rode  through 
gloomy  winding  valleys  of  a  dismal  leaden  color,  full  of  howling 
winds  and  subterraneous  torrents,  nine  days,  ever  deeper,  down 
toward  Hela's  death-realm.  At  Lonesome  Bridge,  which,  with 
its  gold  gate,  spans  the  River  of  Moaning,  he  found  the  portress, 
an  ancient  woman  called  Modgudr,  '  the  Vexer  of  Minds,' 
keeping  watch  as  usual.  Modgudr  answered  him,  '  Yes,  Balder 
passed  this  way :  but  he  is  not  here;  he  is  down  yonder, — far, 
still  far  to  the  north,  within  Hela's  gates,  yonder.*  Hermoder 
rode  on,  still  dauntless,  on  his  horse  named  '  Swiftness,'  or 
'Mane  of  Gold ; ?  reached  Hela's  gates;  leaped  sheer  over  them, 
mounted  as  he  was  ;  saw  Balder,  the  very  Balder,  with  his  eyes, 
but  could  not  bring  him  back.  The  Xornas  were  inexorable : 
Balder  was  never  to  come  back.  Balder  beckoned  him  mourn- 
fully a  still  adieu.  Nanna,  Balder's  wife,  sent  '  a  thimble '  to 


THOMAS    CARLYLE.  355 

her  mother  as  a  memorial.  Balder  never  could  return  !"  Is  not 
this  an  emblem  ?  Old  Portress  Modgudr,  I  take  it,  is  Dryasdust 
in  Norse  petticoat  and  hood,  —  a  most  unlovely  beldam,  the 
Vexer  of  Minds. 

We  will  here  take  final  leave  of  our  impatient  friend,  occupied 
in  this  almost  desperate  enterprise  of  his.  We  will  wish  him, 
which  is  very  easy  to  do,  more  patience  and  better  success  than 
he  seems  to  hope.  And  now  to  our  own  small  enterprise,  and 
solid  dispatch  of  business  in  plain  prose. 

OF  OLIVER'S  LETTERS  AND  SPEECHES. 

Letters  and  authentic  utterances  of  Oliver  lie  scattered,  in 
print  and  manuscript,  in  a  hundred  repositories,  in  all  varieties 
of  condition  and  environment.  Most  of  them  — -  all  the  important 
of  them  —  have  already  long  since  been  printed,  and  again 
printed ;  but  we  can  not,  in  general,  say  ever  read.  Too  often  it 
is  apparent  that  the  very  editor  of  these  very  utterances  had,  if 
reading  mean  understanding,  never  read  them.  They  stand  in 
their  old  spelling,  mispunctuated,  misprinted,  unelucidated,  unin- 
telligible, defaced  with  the  dark  incrustations  too  well  known 
to  students  of  that  period.  The  speeches,  above  all,  as  hitherto 
set  forth  in  "  The  Somers  Tracts,"  in  "  The  Milton  State  Papers," 
in  Burton's  "  Diary,"  and  other  such  books,  excel  human  belief. 
Certainly  no  such  agglomerate  of  opaque  confusions,  printed  and 
reprinted,  of  darkness  on  the  back  of  darkness,  thick  and  three- 
fold, is  known  to  me  elsewhere  in  the  history  of  things  spoken 
or  printed  by  human  creatures.  Of  these  speeches,  all  except 
one,  which  was  published  by  authority  at  the  time,  I  have  to  be- 
lieve myself,  not  very  exultingly,  to  be  the  first  actual  reader  for 
nearly  two  centuries  past. 

Nevertheless,  these  documents  do  exist,  authentic,  though  de- 
faced ;  and  invite  every  one,  who  would  know  that  period,  to  study 
them  until  they  become  intelligible  again.  The  words  of  Oliver 
Cromwell,  the  meaning  they  had,  must  be  worth  recovering 
in  that  point  of  view.  To  collect  these  "  Letters  and  Authentic 
Utterances,"  as  one's  reading  yielded  them,  was  a  comparatively 
grateful  labor;  to  correct  them,  elucidate,  and  make  them  legible 
again,  was  a  good  historical  study.  Surely  "  a  wise  memory  " 
would  wish  to  preserve  among  men  the  written  and  spoken  words 
of  such  a  man  ;  and  as  for  the  "  wise  oblivion,"  that  is  already,  by 
time  and  accident,  done  to  our  hand.  Enough  is  already  lost  and 
destroyed.  We  need  not  in  this  particular  case  omit  further. 

Accordingly,  whatever  words  authentically  proceeding  from 
Oliver  himself  I  could  anywhere  find  yet  surviving,  I  have  here 
gathered ;  and  will  now,  with  such  minimum  of  annotation  as  may 


356  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

suit  that  object,  offer  them  to  the  reader.  That  is  the  purport  of 
this  book.  I  have  ventured  to  believe,  that  to  certain  patient, 
earnest  readers,  these  old  dim  letters  of  a  noble  English  man 
might,  as  they  have  done  to  myself,  become  dimly  legible  again  ; 
might  dimly  present,  better  than  all  other  evidence,  the  noble 
figure  of  the  man  himself  again.  Certainly  there  is  historical 
instruction  in  these  letters,  —  historical,  and  perhaps  other  and 
better.  At  least,  it  is  with  heroes  and  god-inspired  men  that  I, 
for  my  part,  would  far  rather  converse,  in  what  dialect  soever  they 
speak.  Great,  ever  fruitful,  profitable  for  reproof,  for  encourage- 
ment, for  building  up  in  manful  purposes  and  works,  are  the 
words  of  those  that  in  their  day  were  men.  I  will  advise  serious 
persons  interested  in  England,  past  or  present,  to  try  if  they  can 
read  a  little  in  these  letters  of  Oliver  Cromwell,  a  man  once  deeply 
interested  in  the  same  object.  Heavy  as  it  is,  and  dim  and  obso- 
lete, there  may  be  worse  reading  for  such  persons  in  our  time. 

For  the  rest,  if  each  letter  look  dim  and  have  little  light  after 
all  study,  yet  let  the  historical  reader  reflect,  such  light  as  it  has 
can  not  be  disputed  at  all.  These  words,  expository  of  that  day 
and  that  hour,  Oliver  Cromwell  did  see  fittest  to  be  written 
down.  The  letter  hangs  there  in  the  dark  abysses  of  the  past : 
if,  like  a  star,  almost  extinct,  yet,  like  a  real  star,  fixed,  about 
which  there  is  no  caviling  possible.  That  autograph-letter,  it 
was  once  all  luminous  as  a  burning  beacon ;  every  word  of  it  a  live 
coal  in  its  time  ;  it  "was  once  apiece  of  the  general  fire  and  light 
of  human  life,  —  that  letter!  Neither  is  it  yet  entirely  extinct: 
well  read,  there  is  still  in  it  light  enough  to  exhibit  its  own  self; 
n  iv.  to  diffuse  a  faint  authentic  twilight  some  distance  round  it. 
Heaped  embers  which  in  the  daylight  looked  black  may  still  look 
red  in  the  utter  darkness.  These  letters  of  Oliver  will  convince 
any  man  that  the  past  did  exist.  BJT  degrees,  the  combined  small 
twilights  may  produce  a  kind  of  general  feeble  twilight,  rendering 
the  past  credible,  the  ghosts  of  the  past  in  some  glimpses  of 
them  visible.  Such  is  the  effect  of  contemporary  letters  always; 
and  I  can  very  confidently  recommend  Oliver's  as  good  of  their 
kind.  A  man  intent  on  forcing  for  himself  some  path  through 
that  gloomy  chaos  called  History  of  the  Seventeenth  Century, 
and  looking  face  to  face  upon  the  same,  may  perhaps  try  it  by 
this  method  as  hopefully  as  by  another.  Here  is  an  irregular  row 
of  beacon-fires,  once  all  luminous  as  suns,  and  with  a  certain  in- 
extinguishable erubescence  still,  in  the  abysses  of  the  dead  deep 
nisrht.  Let  us  look  here.  In  shadowy  outlines,  in  dimmer  and 
dimmer  crowding  forms,  the  very  figure  of  the  old  dead  time  itself 
may  perhaps  be  faintly  discernible  here. 

I  called  these  letters  good,  but,  withal,  only  good  of  their 
kind.  No  eloquence,  elegance,  not  always  even  clearness  of  ex- 


THOMAS   CARLYLE.  357 

pression,  is  to  be  looked  for  in  them.  They  are  written  with  far 
other  than  literary  aims,  —  written,  most  of  them,  in  the  very  flame 
and  conflagration  of  a  revolutionary  struggle,  and  with  an  eye  to 
the  dispatch  of  indispensable  pressing  business  alone ;  but  it  will 
be  found,  I  conceive,  that,  for  such  end,  they  are  well  written. 
Superfluity,  as  if  by  a  natural  law  of  the  case,  the  writer  has  had 
to  discard :  whatsoever  quality  can  be  dispensed  with  is  indifferent 
to  him.  With  unwieldy  movement,  yet  with  a  great  solid  step, 
he  passes  through  toward  his  object ;  has  marked  out  very  deci- 
sively what  the  real  steps  toward  it  are,  discriminating  well  the 
essential  from  the  extraneous;  forming  to  himself,  in  short,  a 
true,  not  an  untrue,  picture  of  the  business  that  is  to  be  done. 
There  is  in  these  letters,  as  I  have  said  above,  a  silence  still  more 
significant  of  Oliver  to  us  than  any  speech  they  have.  Dimly  we 
discover  features  of  an  intelligence,  and  soul  of  a  man,  greater 
than  any  speech.  The  intelligence  that  can,  with  full  satisfaction 
to  itselfj  come  out  in  eloquent  speaking,  in  musical  singing,  is, 
after  all,  a  small  intelligence.  He  that  works  and  does  some 
poem,  not  he  that  merely  says  one,  is  worthy  of  the  name  of  poet. 
Cromwell,  emblem  of  the  dumb  English,  is  interesting  to  me  by 
the  very  inadequacy  of  his  speech.  Heroic  insight,  valor,  and 
belief,  without  words,  — how  noble  is  it  in  comparison  to  eloquent 
words  without  heroic  insight !  I  have  corrected  the  spelling  of 
these  letters  ;  I  have  punctuated,  and  divided  them  into  para- 
graphs, in. the  modern  manner.  The  originals,  so  far  as  I  have 
seen  such,  have,  in  general,  no  paragraphs.  If  the  letter  is  short, 
it  is  usually  found  written  on  the  first  leaf  of  the  sheet ;  often 
with  the  conclusion,  or  some  postscript,  subjoined  crosswise  on  the 
margin,  indicating  that  there  was  no  blotting-paper  in  those 
days ;  that  the  hasty  writer  was  loath  to  turn  the  leaf.  Oliver's 
spelling  and  printing  are  of  the  sort  common  to  educated  persons 
in  his  time  ;  and  readers  that  wish  it  may  have  specimens  of  him 
in  abundance,  and  of  all  due  dimness,  in  many  printed  books : 
but  to  us,  intent  here  to  have  the  letters  read  and  understood,  it 
seemed  very  proper  at  once  and  altogether  to  get  rid  of  that 
encumbrance.  Would  the  rest  were  all  as  easily  got  rid  of! 
Here  and  there,  to  bring  out  the  struggling  sense,  I  have  added  or 
rectified  a  word,  but  taken  care  to  point  out  the  same.  What 
words  in  the  text  of  the  letters  are  mine,  the  reader  will  find 
marked  off  by  single  commas  :  it  was,  of  course,  my  supreme  duty 
to  avoid  altering  in  any  respect,  not  only  the  sense,  but  the  small- 
est feature  in  the  physiognomy  of  the  original.  And  so  "  a  mini- 
mum of  annotation"  having  been  added,  —  what  minimum  would 
serve  the  purpose,  —  here  are  "  The  Letters  and  Speeches  of  Oliver 
Cromwell ; "  of  which  the  reader,  with  my  best  wishes,  but  not 
with  any  very  high  immediate  hope  of  mine  in  that  particular,  is 
to  make  what  he  can. 


358  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Surely  it  was  far  enough  from  probable  that  these  letters  of 
Cromwell,  written  originally  for  quite  other  objects,  and  selected, 
not  by  the  genius  of  history,  but  by  blind  accident,  which  lias 
saved  them  hitherto,  and  destroyed  the  rest,  can  illuminate  for 
a  modern  man  this  period  of  our  annals,  which  for  all  moderns, 
we  may  say,  has  become  a  gulf  of  bottomless  darkness.  Not  so 
easily  will  the  modern  man  domesticate  himself  in  a  scene  of 
things  every  way  so  foreign  to  him.  Nor  could  any  measurable 
exposition  of  mine  on  this  present  occasion  do  much  to  illuminate 
the  dead  dark  world  of  the  seventeenth  century,  into  which  the 
reader  is  about  to  enter.  He  will  gradually  get  to  understand,  as 
I  have  said,  that  the  seventeenth  century  did  exist;  that  it  was 
not  a  waste  rubbish -continent  of  Rush  worth -Nalson  state- 
papers,  of  philosophical  skepticisms,  dilettanteisms,  Dryasdust 
torpedoisun,  but  an  actual  flesh-and-blood  fact,  with  color  in 
its  cheeks,  with  awful  august  heroic  thoughts  in  its  heart,  and  at 
last  with  steel  sword  in  its  hand.  Theoretically  this  is  a  most 
small  postulate  conceded  at  once  by  everybody  ;  but  practically 
it  is  a  very  large  one,  seldom  or  never  conceded :  the  due  practi- 
cal conceding  of  it  amounts  to  much,  indeed,  —  to  the  sure  promise 
of  all.  I  will  venture  to  give  the  reader  two  little  pieces  of  advice, 
which,  if  his  experience  resemble  mine,  may  prove  furthersome  to 
him  in  this  inquiry:  they  exclude  the  essence  of  all  that  I  have 
discovered  respecting  it. 

The  first  is.  By  no  means  to  credit  the  widespread  report,  that 
these  seventeenth-century  Puritans  were  superstitious,  crackbrained 
persons  ;  given  up  to  enthusiasm,  the  most  part  of  them ;  the 
minor  ruling  part  being  cunning  men,  who  knew  how  to  assume 
the  dialect  of  the  others,  and  thereby,  as  skillful  Machiavels,  to 
dupe  them.  This  is  a  widespread  report,  but  an  untrue  one.  I 
advise  my  reader  to  try  precisely  the  opposite  hypothesis,  —  to 
consider  that  his  fathers,  who  had  thought  about  this  world  very 
seriously  indeed,  and  with  very  considerable  thinking  faculty 
indeed,  were  not  quite  so  far  behindhand  in  their  conclusions 
respecting  it;  that  actually  their  enthusiasms,  if  well  seen 
into,  were  not  foolish,  but  wise;  that  Machiavelism,  cant,  official 
jargon,  whereby  a  man  speaks  openly  what  he  does  not  mean, 
were,  surprising  as  it  may  seem,  much  rarer  then  than  they  have 
ever  since  been.  R-eally  and  truly  it  may  in  a  manner  be  said, 
cant,  parliamentary  and  other  jargon,  were  still  to  invent  in  this 
world.  0  heavens  !  one  could  weep  at  the  contrast.  Cant  was 
not  fashionable  at  all ;  that  stupendous  invention  of  "  speech  for 
the  purpose  of  concealing  thought "  was  not  yet  made.  A  man 
wagging  the  tongue  of  him  as  if  it  were  the  clapper  of  a  bell  to 
be  rung  for  economic  purposes,  and  not  so  much  as  attempting  to 
convey  any  inner  thought,  if  thought  he  have,  of  the  matter 


THOMAS    CARLYLE.  359 

talked  of,  would  at  that  date  have  awakened  all  the  horror  in 
men's  minds,  which  at  all .  dates,  and  at  this  date  too,  is  due  to 
him.  The  accursed  thing  !  No  man  as  yet  dared  to  do  it ;  all 
me'n  helieving  that  God  would  judge  them.  In  the  history  of  the 
Civil  War  far  and  wide,  I  have  not  fallen  in  with  one  such 
phenomenon.  Even  Archbishop  Laud  and  Peter  Hevlin  meant 
what  they  say :  through  their  words  do  you  look  direct  into  the 
scraggy  conviction  they  have  formed ;  or,  if  "  lying  Peter  "  do 
lie,  he  at  least  knows  that  he  is  lying.  Lord  Clarendon,  a  man 
of  sufficient  unveracity  of  heart,  to  whom,  indeed,  whatsoever  has 
direct  veracity  of  heart  is  more  or  less  horrible,  speaks  always  in 
official  language,  —  a  clothed,  nay  sometimes  even  quilted  dialect, 
yet  always  with  some  considerate  body  in  the  heart  of  it,  never 
with  none.  The  use  of  the  human  tongue  was  then  other  than  it 
now  is.  I  counsel  the  reader  to  leave  all  that  of  cant,  dupery, 
Machiavelism,  and  so  forth,  decisively  lying  at  the  threshold.  He 
will  be  wise  to  believe  that  these  Puritans  do  mean  what  they 
say,  and  to  try  unimpeded  if  he  can  discover  what  that  is. 
Gradually  a  very  stupendous  phenomenon  may  rise  on  his 
astonished  eye,  —  a  practical  world  based  on  belief  in  God  ;  such 
as  many  centuries  had  seen  before,  but  as  never  any  century  since 
has  been  privileged  to  see.  It  was  the  last  glimpse  of  it  in  our 
world,  this  of  English  Puritanism;  very  great,  very  glorious; 
tragical  enough  to  all  thinking  hearts  that  look  on  it  from  these 
days  of  ours.  My  second  advice  is,  Not  to  imagine  that  it  was 
constitution,  "liberty  of  the  people  to  tax  themselves,"  privilege 
of  parliament,  triennial  or  annual  parliaments,  or  any  modification 
of  these  sublime  privileges  now  waxing  somewhat  faint  in  our 
admirations,  that  mainly  animated  Cromwells,  Pyms,  and  Hamp- 
dens  to  the  heroic  efforts  we  still  admire  in  retrospect ;  not  these 
very  measurable  "  privileges,"  but  a  far  other  and  deeper,  which 
could  not  be  measured,  of  which  these,  and  all  grand  social  im- 
provements whatsoever,  are  the  corollary.  Our  ancient  Puritan 
reformers  were,  as  all  reformers  that  will  ever  much  benefit  this 
earth  are  always,  inspired  by  a  heavenly  purpose.  To  see  God's 
own  law,  then  universally  acknowledged  for  complete  as  it  stood  in 
the  holy  written  book,  made  good  in  this  world  ;  to  see  this,  or  the 
true  unwearied  aim  and  struggle  towards  this,  —  it  was  a  thing 
worth  living  for  and  dying  for.  Eternal  justice,  —  that  God's  will 
be  done  on  earth  as  it  is  in  heaven  :  corollaries  enough  will  flow 
from  that;  if  that  be  not  there,  no  corollary  good  for  much  will  flow. 
It  was  the  general  spirit  of  England  in  the  seventeenth  century. 
In  other  somewhat  sadly  disfigured  form,  we  have  seen  the  same 
immortal  hope  take  practical  shape  in  the  French  Revolution,  and 
once  more  astonish  the  world.  That  England  should  all  become  a 
church,  if  you  like  to  name  it  so;  a  church  presided  over,  not  by 


360  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

sham-priests  in  "four  surplices  at  Allhallowtide,"  but  by  true  God- 
consecrated  ones,  whose  hearts  the  Most  High  had  touched  and 
hallowed  with  his  fire,  —  this  was  the  prayer  of  many  :  it  was  Jthe 
Godlike  hope  and  effort  of  some. 

Our  modern  methods  of  reform  differ  somewhat,  as,  indeed, 
the  issue  testifies.  I  will  advise  my  reader  to  forget  the  modern 
methods  of  reform  ;  not  to  remember  that  he  has  ever  heard  of  a 
modern  individual  called  by  the  name  of  reformer,  if  he  would 
understand  what  the  old  meaning  of  the  word  was.  The  Crom- 
wells,  Pyms,  Harnpdens,  who  were  understood  on  the  Royalist 
side  to  be  firebrands  of  the  Devil,  have  had  still  worse  measure 
from  the  Dryasdust  philosophies  and  skeptical  histories  of  later 
times.  They  really  did  resemble  firebrands  of  the  Devil,  if  you 
looked  at  them  through  spectacles  of  a  certain  color ;  for  fire  is 
always  fire.  But  by  no  spectacles,  only  by  mere  blinders  and 
wooden-eyed  spctacles,  can  the  flame-girt  'heaven's  messenger  pass 
for  a  moldy  pedant  and  constitution-monger,  such  as  this  would 
make  him  out  to  be. 

On  the  whole,  say  not,  good  reader,  as  is  often  done,  "  It  was 
then  all  one  as  now."  Good  reader,  it  was  considerably  different 
then  from  now.  Men  indolently  say,  "  The  ages  are  all  alike ; 
ever  the  same  sorry  elements  over  again  in  new  vesture ;  the 
issue  of  it  always  a  melancholy  farce-tragedy  in  one  age  as  in 
another."  Wherein  lies  very  obviously  a  truth  ;  but  also  in  secret 
a  very  sad  error  withal.  Sure  enough,  the  highest  life  touches 
always,  by  large  sections  of  it,  on  the  vulgar  and  universal :  he 
that  expects  to  see  a  hero,  or  an  heroic  age,  step  forth  into  practice 
in  yellow  Drury-lane  stage-boots,  and  speak  in  blank  verse  for 
itself,  will  look  long  in  vain.  Sure  enough,  in  the  heroic  century, 
as  in  the  unheroic,  knaves  and  cowards,  and  cunning,  greedy 
persons,  were  not  wanting,  —  were,  if  you  will,  extremely  abun- 
dant. But  the  question  always  remains,  Did  they  lie  chained, 
subordinate  in  this  world's  business,  coerced  by  steel  whips,  or  in 
whatever  other  effectual  way,  and  sent  whimpering  into  their  due 
subterranean  abodes  to  beat  hemp  and  repent,  —  a  true  never- 
ending  attempt  going  on  to  handcuff,  to  silence  and  suppress 
them  ?  Or  did  they  walk  openly  abroad,  the  envy  of  a  general 
valet-population,  and  bear  sway ;  professing,  without  universal 
anathema,  almost  with  general  assent,  that  they  were  the  orthodox 
party ;  that  they,  even  they,  were  such  men  as  you  had  right  to 
look  for  ? 

Reader,  the  ages  differ,  greatly,  even  infinitely,  from  one 
another.  Considerable  tracts  of  ages  there  have  been,  by  far  the 
majority  indeed,  wherein  the  men,  unfortunate  mortals,  were  a 
set  of  mimetic  creatures  rather  than  men ;  without  heart-insight 
as  to  this  universe,  and  its  hights  and  its  abysses  j  without 


THOMAS   DK   QUINCEY.  361 

conviction  or  belief  of  tlieir  own  regarding  it  at  all ;  who 
walked  merely  by  hearsays,  traditionary  cants,  black  and  white 
surplices,  and  inane  confusions;  whose  whole  existence,  accord- 
ingly, was  a  grimace;  nothing  original  in  it,  nothing  genuine  or 
sincere  but  this  only,  —  their  greediness  of  appetite,  and  their 
faculty  of  digestion.  Such  unhappy  ages,  too  numerous  here 
below,  the  genius  of  mankind  indignantly  seizes  as  disgraceful  to 
the  family,  and  with  Rhadamanthine  ruthlessness  annihilates ; 
tumbles  large  masses  of  them  swiftly  into  eternal  night.  These 
are  the  unheroic  ages,  which  can  not  serve  on  the  general  field  of 
existence,  except  as  dust,  as  inorganic  manure.  The  memory  of 
such  ages  fades  away  for  ever  out  of  the  minds  of  all  men.  Why 
should  any  memory  of  them  continue  ?  The  fashion  of  them  has 
passed  away ;  and  as  for  genuine  substance,  they  never  had  any. 
To  no  heart  of  a  man  any  more  can  these  ages  become  lovely. 
What  melodious  loving  heart  will  search  into  their  records,  will 
sing  of  them,  or  celebrate  them  ?  Even  torpid  Dryasdust  is 
forced  to  give  over  at  last;  all  creatures  declining  to  hear  him  on 
that  subject :  whereupon  ensue  composure  and  silence,  and  Oblivion 
has  her  own. 

Good  reader,  if  you  be  wise,  search  not  for  the  secret  of  heroic 
ages,  which  have  done  great  things  in  this  earth,  among  their 
falsities,  their  greedy  quackeries  and  unheroisms.  It  never  lies, 
and  never  will  lie,  there.  Knaves  and  quacks  —  alas!  we  know 
they  abounded;  but  the  age  was  heroic,  even  because  it  had 
declared  war  to  the  death  with  these,  and  would  have  neither 
truce  nor  treaty  with  these ;  and  went  forth,  flame-crowned,  as 
with  bared  sword,  and  called  the  Most  High  to  witness  that  it 
would  not  endure  these.  But  now  for  the  letters  of  Cromwell 
themselves. 


THOMAS   DE    QUINCEY. 

1786-1859. 

Author  of  "The  Confessions  of  an  English  Opium-Eater;"  "  Su^piria  de  Pro- 
fundis,"  a  sequel  to  the  "  Confessions;"  and  other  essays  of  remarkable  eloquence, 
and  beauty  of  style. 

THE  PALIMPSEST. 

You  know  perhaps,  masculine  reader,  better  than  I  can  tell 
you,  what  is  a  palimpsest:  possibly  you  have  one  in  your  own 
library.  But  yet,  for  the  sake  of  others  who  may  not  know,  or 
may  have  forgotten,  suffer  me  to  explain  it  here,  lest  any  female 


362  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

reader  who  honors  these  papers  with  her  notice  should  tax  me 
with  explaining  it  once  too  seldom;  which  would  be  worse  to  bear 
than  a  simultaneous  complaint  from"  twelve  proud  men,  that  I  had 
explained  it  three  times  too  often.  You,  therefore,  fair  reader, 
understand,  that  for  your  accommodation  exclusively  I  explain 
the  meaning  of  this  word.  It  is  Greek;  and  our  sex  enjoys  the 
office  and  privilege  of  standing  counsel  to  yours  in  all  questions 
of  Greek.  We  are,  under  favor,  perpetual  and  hereditary  drago- 
mans to  you:  so  that,  if  by  accident  you  know  the  meaning  of 
•A  Greek  word,  yet,  by  courtesy  to  us,  your  counsel  learned  in  that 
matter,  you  will  always  seem  not  to  know  it. 

A  palimpsest,  then,  is  a  membrane,  or  roll,  cleansed  of  its  manu- 
script by  reiterated  successions. 

What  was  the  reason  that  the  Greeks  and  the  Romans  had  not 
the  advantage  of  printed  books  ?  The  answer  will  be  from 
ninety-nine  persons  in  a  hundred,  "  Because  the  mystery  of 
printing  was  not  then  discovered."  But  this  is  altogether  a  mis- 
take. The  secret  of  printing  must  have  been  discovered  many 
thousands  of  times  before  it  was  used,  or  could  be  used.  The  in- 
ventive powers  of  man  are  divine;  and  also  his  stupidity  is  divine, 
as  Cowper  so  playfully  illustrates  in  the  slow  development  of  the 
snfa  through  successive  generations  of  immortal  dullness.  It  took 
centuries  of  blockheads  to  raise  a  joint  stool  into  a  chair;  and  it 
required  something  like  a  miracle  of  genius,  in  the  estimate  of 
elder  generations,  to  reveal  the  possibility  of  lengthening  a 
chair  into  a  chaise-longue,  or  a  sofa.  Yes,  these  were  inventions 
that  cost  mighty  throes  of  intellectual  power.  But  still,  as 
respects  printing,  and  admirable  as  is  the  stupidity  of  man,  it  was 
really  not  quite  equal  to  the  task  of  evading  an  object  which 
stared  him  in  the  face  with  so  broad  a  gaze.  It  did  not  require  an 
Athenian  intellect  to  read  the  main  secret  of  printing  in  many 
^scores  of  processes  which  the  ordinary  uses  of  life  were  dally 
repeating.  To  say  nothing  of  analogous  artifices  amongst  various 
mechanic  artisans,  all  that  is  essential  in  printing  must  have  been 
known  to  every  nation  that  struck  coins  and  medals.  Xot,  there- 
fore, any  want  of  a  printing  art,  —  that  is,  of  an  art  for  multiplying 
impressions,  —  but  the  want  of  a  cheap  material  for  receiving 
such  impressions,  was  the  obstacle  to  an  introduction  of  printed 
books,  even  as  early  as  Pisistratus.  The  ancients  did  apply 
printing  to  records  of  silver  and  gold :  to  marble,  and  many  other 
substances  cheaper  than  gold  and  silver,  they  did  not,  since  each 
monument  required  a  separate  effort  of  inscription.  Simply  this 
defect  it  was  —  of  a  cheap  material  for  receiving  impresses  — 
which  froze  in  its  very  fountains  the  early  resources  of  printing. 

Some  twenty  years  ago,  this  view  of  the  case  was  luminously 
expounded  by  Dr.  Whately,  the  present  Archbishop  of  Dublin, 


THOMAS   DE   QUINCEY.  363 

and  with  the  merit,  I  believe,  of  having  first  suggested  it.  Since 
then,  this  theory  has  received  indirect  confirmation.  Now,  out  of 
that  original  scarcity  affecting  all  materials  proper  for  durable 
books,  which  continued  up  to  times  comparatively  modern,  grew 
the  opening  for  palimpsests.  Naturally,  when  once  a  roll  of 
parchment  or  of  vellum  had  done  its  office,  by  propagating 
through  a  series  of  generations  what  once  had  possessed  an 
interest  for  them,  but  which,  under  changes  of  opinion  or 
of  taste,  had  faded  to  their  feelings,  or  had  become  obsolete 
for  their  undertakings,  the  whole  membrana,  or  vellum-skin, — 
the  twofold  product  of  human  skill,  costly  material,  and 
costly  freight  of  thought  which  it  carried,  —  drooped  in  value 
concurrently,  supposing  that  each  were  inalienably  associated 
to  the  other.  ,  Once  it  had  been  the  impress  of  a  human  mind 
which  stamped  its  value  upon  the  vellum  :  the  vellum,  though 
costly,  had  contributed  but  a  secondary  element  of  value  to  the 
total  result.  At  length,  however,  this  relation  between  the  vehicle 
and  its  freight  has  gradually  been  undermined.  The  vellum,  from 
having  been  the  setting  of  the  jewel,  has  risen  at  length  to  be  the 
jewel  itself:  and  the  burden  of  thought,  from  having  given  the 
chief  value  to  the  vellum,  has  now  become  the  chief  obstacle  to  its 
value ;  nay,  has  totally  extinguished  its  value,  unless  it  can  be 
dissociated  from  the  connection.  Yet  if  this  unlinking  can  be 
effected,  then,  fast  as  the  inscription  upon  the  membrane  is 
sinking  into  rubbish,  the  membrane  itself  is  reviving  in  its 
separate  importance  ;  and,  from  bearing  a  ministerial  value,  the 
vellum  has  come  at  last  to  absorb  the  whole  value. 

Hence  the  importance  for  our  ancestors  that  the  separation 
should  be  effected.  Hence  it  arose  in  the  middle  ages,  as  a  con- 
siderable object  for  chemistry,  to  discharge  the  writing  from  the 
roll,  and  thus  to  make  it  available  for  a  new  succession  of 
thoughts.  The  soil,  if  cleansed  from  what  once  had  been  hot- 
house plants,  but  now  were  held  to  be  weeds,  would  be  ready  to 
receive  a  fresh  and  more  appropriate  crop.  In  that  object  the 
monkish  chemist  succeeded,  but  after  a  fashion  which  seems 
almost  incredible,  —  incredible  not  as  regards  the  extent  of  their 
success,  but  as  regards  the  delicacy  of  restraints  under  which  it 
moved ;  so  equally  adjusted  was  their  success  to  the  immediate 
interests  of  that  period  and  to  the  reversionary  objects  of  our 
own.  They  did  the  thing,  but  not  so  radically  as  to  prevent  us 
their  posterity  from  undoing  it.  They  expelled  the  writing 
sufficiently  to  leave  a  field  for  the  new  manuscript,  and  yet  not 
sufficiently  to  make  the  traces  of  the  elder  manuscript  irrecover- 
able for  us.  Could  magic,  could  Hermes  Trismegistus,  have 
done  more  ?  What  would  you  think,  fair  reader,  of  a  problem 
such  as  this  ?  —  to  write  a  book  which  should  be  sense  for  your 


364  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

own  generation,  nonsense  for  the  next,  should  revive  into  sense 
for  the  next  after  that,  but  again  become  nonsense  for  the  fourth  ; 
and  so  on  by  alternate  successions,  sinking  into  night  or  blazing 
into  day,  like  the  Sicilian  river  Arethusa,  and  the  English  river 
Mole ;  or  like  the  undulating  motions  of  a  flattened  stone 
which  children  cause  to  skim  the  breast  of  a  river,  now  diving 
below  the  water,  now  grazing  its  surface,  sinking  heavily  into 
darkness,  rising  buoyantly  into  light,  through  a  long  vista  of 
alternations.  Such  a  problem,  you  say,  is  impossible.  But  really 
it  is  a  problem  not  harder,  apparently,  than  to  bid  a  generation 
kill,  but  so  that  a  subsequent  generation  may  call  back  into  life; 
bury,  but  so  that  posterity  may  command  to  rise  again.  Yet  that 
was  what  the  rude  chemistry  of  past  ages  effected  when  coming 
into  combination  with  the  re-action  from  the  more  refined 
chemistry  of  our  own.  Had  they  been  better  chemists,  had  ice 
been  worse,  the  mixed  result  —  namely,  that,  dying  for  them,  the 
flower  should  revive  for  us  —  could  not  have  been  effected.  They 
did  the  thing  proposed  to  them  ;  they  did  it  effectually  ;  for  they 
founded  upon  it  all  that  was  wanted:  and  yet  ineffectually,  since 
we  unraveled  their  work,  effacing  all  above  which  they  had  super- 
scribed, restoring  all  below  which  they  had  effaced. 

Here,  for  instance,  is  a  parchment  which  contained  some 
Grecian  tragedj^,  —  the  "  Agamemnon "  of  ^Eschylus  or  the 
"  Phoenissre  "  of  Euripides.  This  had  possessed  a  value  almost 
inappreciable  in  the  eyes  of  accomplished  scholars,  continually 
growing  rarer  through  generations.  But  four  centuries  are  gone 
by  since  the  destruction  of  the  Western  Empire.  Christianity, 
with  towering  grandeurs  of  another  class,  has  founded  a  different 
empire  ;  and  some  bigoted  yet  perhaps  holy  monk  has  washed 
away  (as  he  persuades  himself)  the  heathen's  tragedy,  replacing  it 
with  a  monastic  legend  ;  which  legend  is  disfigured  with  fables  in 
its  incidents,  and  yet  in  a  higher  sense  is  true,  because  interwoven 
with  Christian  morals,  and  with  the  sublimest  of  Christian 
revelations.  Three,  four,  five  centuries  more  find  man  still 
devout  as  ever :  but  the  language  has  become  obsolete  ;  and  even 
for  Christian  devotion  a  new  era  has  arisen,  throwing  it  into  the 
channel  of  crusading  zeal  or  of  chivalrous  enthusiasm.  The  mem- 
l i'n n a  is  wanted  now  for  a  knightly  romance,  —  for  "  my  Cid,"  or 
Coeur  de  Lion;  for  Sir  Tristreni,  or  Lybreus  Disconus.  In  this 
way.  by  means  of  the  imperfect  chemist^  known  to  the  mediaeval 
period,  the  same  roll  has  served  as  a  conservatory  for  three  sepa- 
rate generations  of  flowers  and  fruits ;  all  perfectly  different, 
and  yet  all  specially  adapted  to  the  wants  of  the  successive 
possessors.  The  Greek  tragedy,  the  monkish  legend,  the  knightly 
romance,  —  each  has  ruled  its  own  period.  One  harvest  after 
another  has  been  gathered  into  the  garners  of  man  through  ages 


THOMAS   DE   QUINCEY.  365 

far  apart ;  and  the  same  hydraulic  machinery  has  distributed, 
through  the  same  marble  fountains,  water,  milk,  or  wine,  accord- 
ing to  the  habits  and  training  of  the  generations  that  came  to 
quench  their  thirst. 

Such  were  the  achievements  of  rude  monastic  chemistry.  But 
the  more  elaborate  chemistry  of  our  own  days  has  reversed  all 
these  motions  of  our  simple  ancestors,  which  results  in  every  stage 
that  to  them  would  have  realized  the  most  fantastic  amongst  the 
promises  of  thaumaturgy.  Insolent  vaunt  of  Paracelsus,  that  he 
would  restore  the  original  rose  or  violet  out  of  the  ashes  settling 
from  its  combustion  !  —  that  is  now  rivaled  in  this  modern  achieve- 
ment. The  traces  of  each  successive  handwriting,  regularly 
effaced,  as  had  been  imagined,  have,  in  the  inverse  order,  been 
regularly  called  back ;  the  footsteps  of  the  game  pursued  —  wolf  or 
stag  —  in  each  several  chase  have  been  unlinked,  and  hunted  back 
through  all  their  doubles :  and  as  the  chorus  of  the  Athenian 
stage  unwove  through  the  antistrophe  every  step  that  had  been 
mystically  woven  through  the  strophe,  so,  by  our  modern  con- 
jurations of  .science,  secrets  of  ages  remote  from  each  other  have 
been  exorcised  from  the  accumulated  shadows  of  centuries. 
Chemistry,  a  witch  as  potent  as  the  Erictho  of  Lucanto  ("  Phar- 
salia,"  lib.  vi.  or  vii.),  has  extorted  by  her  torments  from  the 
dust  and  ashes  of  forgotten  centuries  the  secrets  of  a  life  extinct 
for  the  general  eye,  but  still  glowing  in  the  embers.  Even  the 
fable  of  the  phoenix —  that  secular  bird,  who  propagated  his 
solitary  existence  and  his  solitary  births  'along  the  line  of 
centuries  through  eternal  relays  of  funeral  mists  —  is  but  a  type 
of  what  we  have  done  with  palimpsests.  We  have  backed  upon 
each  phoenix  in  the  long  regressus,  and  forced  him  to  expose  his 
ancestral  phoenix  sleeping  in  the  ashes  below  his  own  ashes. 
Our  good  old  forefathers  would  have  been  aghast  at  "our  sorce- 
ries ;  and,  if  they  speculated  on  the  propriety  of  burning  Dr. 
Faustus,  us  they  would  have  burned  by  acclamation.  Trial  there 
would  have  been  none  ;  and  they  could  not  otherwise  have  satis- 
fied their  horror  of  the  brazen  profligacy  marking  our  modern 
magic  than  by  plowing  up  the  houses  of  all  who  had  been 
parties  to  it,  and  sowing  the  ground  with  salt. 

Fancy  not,  reader,  that  this  tumult  of  images,  illustrative  or 
allusive,  moves  under  any  impulse  or  purpose  of  mirth.  It  is  but 
the  coruscation  of  .a  restless  understanding,  often  made  ten  times 
more  so  by  irritation  of  the  nerves,  such  as  you  will  first  learn  to 
comprehend  (its  how  and  its  why)  some  stage  or  two  ahead.  The 
image,  the  memorial,  the  record,  which  for  me  is  derived  from  a 
palimpsest,  as  to  one  great  fact  in  our  human  being',  and  which 
immediately  I  will  show  you,  is  but  too  repellent  of  laughter ;  or, 
even  if  laughter  had  been  possible,  it  would  have  been  such 


366  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

laughter  as  oftentimes  is  thrown  off  from  the  fields  of  ocean,  — 
laughter  that  hides,  or  that  seems  to  evade  mustering  tumult ; 
foam-bells  that  weave  garlands  of  phosphoric  radiance  for  one 
moment  round  the  eddies  of  gleaming  abysses  ;  mimicries  of 
earth-born  flowers  that  for  the  eye  raise  phantoms  of  gayety,  as 
oftentimes  for  the  ear  they  raise  the  echoes  of  fugitive  laughter, 
mixing  with  the  ravings  and  choir-voices  of  an  angry  sea. 

What  else  than  a  natural  and  mighty  palimpsest  is  the  human 
brain?  Such  a  palimpsest  is  my  brain;  such  a  palimpsest,  O 
reader!  is  yours.  Everlasting  layers  of  ideas,  images,  feelings, 
have  fallen  upon  your  brain  softly  as  light.  Each  succession  has 
seemed  to  bury  all  that  went  before ;  and  yet,  in  reality,  not  one 
has  been  extinguished.  And  if  in  the  vellum  palimpsest,  lying 
amongst  the  other  diplomata  of  human  archives  or  libraries,  there 
is  any  thing  fantastic,  or  which  moves  to  laughter,  as  oftentimes 
there  is  in  the  grotesque  collisions  of  those  successive  themes, 
having  no  natural  connection,  which  by  pure  accident  have  con- 
secutively occupied  the  roll,  yet  in  our  own  heaven-created 
palimpsest,  the  deep  memorial  palimpsest  of  the  brain,  there  are 
not,  and  can  not  be,  such  incoherences.  The  fleeting  accidents  of 
a  man's  life,  and  its  external  shows,  may  indeed  be  irrelate 
and  incongruous;  but  the  organizing  principles  which  fuse  into 
harmony,  and  gather  about  fixed  predetermined  centers,  whatever 
heterogeneous  elements  life  may  have  accumulated  from  without, 
will  not  permit  the  grandeur  of  human  unit}7  greatly  to  be  violated, 
or  its  ultimate  repose  to  be  troubled,  in  the  retrospect  from  dying 
moments,  or  from  other  great  convulsions. 

Such  a  convulsion  is  the  struggle  of  gradual  suffocation,  as  in 
drowning ;  and,  in  the  original  "  Opium  Confessions,"  I  mentioned 
a  case  of  that  nature,  communicated  to  me  by  a  lady  from  her 
own  childish  experience.  The  lady  is  still  living,  though  now  of 
unusually  great  age  :  and  I  may  mention,  that  amongst  her  faults 
never  was  numbered  any  levity  of  principle,  or  carelessness  of  the 
most  scrupulous  veracit}^  but,  on  the  contrary,  such  faults  as 
arise  from  austerity,  too  harsh,  perhaps,  and  gloomy,  indulgent 
neither  to  others  nor  herself;  and  at  the  time  of  relating  this 
incident,  when  already  very  old,  she  had  become  religious  to 
asceticism.  According  to  my  present  belief,  she  had  completed 
her  ninth  year,  when,  playing  by  the  side  of  a  solitary  brook,  she 
fell  into  one  of  its  deepest  pools.  Eventually,  but  after  what 
lapse  of  time  nobody  ever  knew,  she  was  saved  from  death  by  a 
farmer,  who,  riding  in  some  distant  lane,  had  seen  her  rise  to  the 
surface  ;  but  not  until  she  had  descended  within  the  abyss  of 
death,  and  looked  into  its  secrets,  as  far,  perhaps,  as  ever  human 
•in  have  looked,  that  had  permission  to  return.  At  a  certain 
stage  of  this  descent,  a  blow  seemed  to  strike  her ;  phosphoric 


THOMAS  DE   QUINCEY.  3G7 

radiance  sprang  forth  from  her  eyeballs;  and  immediately  a 
mighty  theater  expanded  within  her  brain.  In  a  moment,  in  the 
twinkling  of  an  eye,  every  act,  every  design,  of  her  past  life,  lived 
again,  arraying  themselves,  not  as  a  succession,  but  as  parts  of  a 
co-existence.  Such  a  light  fell  upon  the  whole  path  of  her  life 
backwards  into  the  shades  of  infancy  as  the  light,  perhaps,  which 
wrapped  the  destined  apostle  on  his  road  to  Damascus.  Yet  that 
light  blinded  for  a  season  ;  but  hers  poured  celestial  vision  upon 
the  brain,  so  that  her  consciousness  became  omnipresent  at  one 
moment  to  every  feature  in  the  infinite  review. 

This  anecdote  was  treated  skeptically  at  the  time  by  some 
critics ;  but  besides  that  it  has  since  been  confirmed  by  other  expe- 
rience essentially  the  same,  reported  by  other  parties  in  the  same 
circumstances,  who  had  never  heard  of  each  other,  the  true  point 
for  astonishment  is  not  the  simultaneity  of  arrangement  under 
which  the  past  events  of  life,  though  in  fact  successive,  had  formed 
their  dread  line  of  revelation.  This  was  but  a  secondary  phe- 
nomenon :  the  deeper  lay  in  the  resurrection  itself,  and  the  possi- 
bility of  resurrection,  for  what  had  so  long  slept  in  the  dust.  A 
pall,  deep  as  oblivion,  had  been  thrown  Hby  life  over  every  trace  of 
these  experiences  ;  and  yet  suddenly,  at  a  silent  command,  at  the 
signal  of  a  blazing  rocket  sent  up  from  the  brain,  the  pall  draws 
up,  and  the  whole  depths  of  the  theater  are  exposed.  Here 
was  the  greater  mystery.  Now,  this  mystery  is  liable  to  no  doubt ; 
for  it  is  repeated,  and  ten  thousand  times  repeated,  by  opium,  for 
those  who  are  its  martyrs. 

Yes,  reader,  countless  are  the  mysterious  handwritings  of  grief 
or  joy  which  have  inscribed  thems:  Ives  successively  upon  the 
palimpsest  of  your  brain ;  and  like  the  annual  leaves  of  aborigi- 
nal forests,  or  the  undissolving  snows  on  the  Himalaj^a,  or  light 
falling  upon  light,  the  endless  strata  have  covered  up  each  other 
in  forgetfulness.  But  by  the  hour  of  death,  but  by  fever,  but  by 
the  searchings  of  opium,  all  these  can  revive  in  strength  :  they  are 
not  dead,  but  sleeping.  In  the  illustration  imagined  by  myself 
from  the  case  of  some  individual  palimpsest,  the  Grecian  tragedy 
had  seemed  to  be  displaced,  but  was  not  displaced,  by  the  monkish 
legend  ;  and  the  monkish  legend  had  seemed  to  be  displaced,  but 
was  not  displaced,  by  the  knightly  romance.  In  some  potent  con- 
vulsion of  the  system,  all  wheels  back  into  i^s  earliest  elementary 
stage.  The  bewildering  romance,  light  tarnished  with  darkness, 
the  semi-fabulous  legend,  truth  celestial  mixed  with  human  false- 
hoods, —  these  fade  even  of  themselves  as  life  advances.  The 
romance  has  perished  that  the  3roung  man  adored ;  the  legend  has 
gone  that  deluded  the  boy :  but  the  deep,  deep  tragedies  of 
infancy,  as  when  the  child's  hands  were  unlinked  for  ever  from  his 
mother's  neck,  or  his  lips  for  ever  from  his  sister's  kisses,  —  these 


368  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

remain  lurking  below  all;  and  these  lurk  to  the  last.  Alchemy 
there  is  none  of  passion  or  disease  that  can  scorch  away  these 
immortal  impresses;  and  the  dream  which  closed  the  preceding 
section,  together  with  the  succeeding  dreams  of  this  (which  may 
be  viewed  as  in  the  nature  of  choruses  winding  up  the  overture 
contained  in  Part  I.),  are  but  illustrations  of  this  truth,  such 
as  every  man,  probably,  will  meet  experimentally,  who  passes 
through  similar  convulsions  of  dreaming  or  delirium  from  any 
similar  or  equal  disturbance  in  his  nature.* 


CHARLES  LAMB. 

1775-1835. 

Humorous,  witty,  genial;    essayist   and   critic;    author  of  "Essays   by  Elia," 
"  Jolin  Woodvil,"  "  Tales  founded  on  the  Plays  of  Shakspeare,"  and  a'few  poems. 


A    QUAKERS'   MEETING. 

"  Still-born  Silence !  thou  that  art 
Floodgate  of  the  deeper  heart ! 
Offspring  of  a  heavenly  kind ! 
Frost  o'  the  mouth,  and  thaw  o'  the  mind! 
Secrecy's  confidant,  and  he 
Who  makes  religion  mystery ! 
Admiration's  speak ing'st  tongue! 
Leave,  thy  desert  shades  among, 
Reverend  hermits'  hallowed  cells, 
Where  retired  devotion  dwells: 
With  thy  enthusiasms  come, 
Seize  our  tongues,  and  strike  us  dumb !  "  f 

READER,  wouldst  thou  know  what  true  peace  and  quiet  mean ; 
wouldst  thou  find  a  refuge  from  the  noises  and  clamors  of  the 
multitude;  wouldst  thou  enjoy  at  once  solitude  and  society; 
wouldst  thou  possess  the  depth  of  thine  own  spirit  in  stillness, 
without  being  shut  out  from  the  consolatory  faces  of  thy  species ; 
•wouldst  thou  be  alone,  and  yet  accompanied;  solitary,  yet  not 

*  This,  it  may  be  said,  requires  a  corresponding  duration  of  experience;  but,  as  an 
argument  for  tins  mysterious  power  lurking  in  our  nature,  I  may  remind  the  reader  of 
one  phenomenon  open  to  the  notice  of  everybody;  namely,  the' tendency  of  very  aged 
persons  to  throwback  and  concentrate  the  light  of  their  memory  upon  scenes  of  early 
childhood,  as  to  which  they  recall  many  traces  that  had  faded  even  to  themselrex  In 
middle  life,  whilst  they  often  forget  altogether  the  whole  Intermediate  stages  of  their 
experience.  This  shows  that  naturally,  and  without  violent  agencies,  the  human  brain 
is  by  tendency  a  palimpsest. 

t  From  Poems  of  all  Sorts,  by  Richard  Flecknoe,  1653. 


CHARLES   LAMB.  3GO 

desolate  ;  singular,  yet  not  without  some  to  keep  tliee  in  counte- 
nance ;  a  unit  in  aggregate,  a  simple  in  composite  :  come  with 
me  into  a  Quakers'  meeting. 

Dost  thou  love  silence  deep  as  that  "  before  the  winds  were 
made : "  go  not  out  into  the  wilderness ;  descend  not  into 
the  profundities  of  the  earth ;  shut  not  up  thy  casements, 
nor  pour  wax  into  the  little  cells  of  thine  ears,  with  little- 
faithed,  self-mistrusting  Ulysses  :  retire  with  me  into  a  Quakers' 
meeting. 

For  a  man  to  refrain  even  from  good  words,  and  to  hold 
his  peace,  it  is  commendable  ;  but,  for  a  multitude,  it  is  great 
mastery.  . 

What  is  the  stillness  of  the  desert  compared  with  this  place  ? 
what  the  uncommunicating  muteness  of  fishes?  Here  the 
goddess  reigns  and  revels.  "  Boreas  and  Cesias  and  Argestes 
loud"  do  not  with  their  inter-confounding  uproars  more  augment 
the  brawl  —  nor  the  waves  of  the  blown  Baltic  with  their  clubbed 
sounds  —  than  their  opposite  (Silence  her  sacred  self)  is  multi- 
plied and  rendered  more  intense  by  numbers  and  by  sympathy. 
{She,  too,  hath  her  deeps  that  call  unto  deeps.  Negation  itself  hath 
a  positive  more  and  less ;  and  closed  eyes  would  seem  to  obscure 
the  great  obscurity  of  midnight. 

There  are  wounds  which  an  imperfect  solitude  can  not  heal.  By 
imperfect,  I  mean  that  which  a  man  enjoyeth  by  himself.  The 
perfect  is  that  which  he  can  sometimes  attain  in  crowds,  but 
nowhere  so  absolutely  as  in  a  Quakers'  meeting.  Those  first' 
hermits  did  certainly  understand  this  principle  when  they  re- 
tired into  Egyptian  solitudes,  not  singly,  but  in  shoals,  to  enjoy 
one  another's  want  of  conversation.  The  Carthusian  is  bound  to 
his  brethren  by  this  agreeing  spirit  of  incommunicativeness. 
In  secular  occasions,  what  so  pleasant  as  to  be  reading  a  book 
through  a  long  winter  evening  with  a  friend  sitting  by,  —  say, 
a  wife, — he  or  she,  too  (if  that  be  probable),  reading  another, 
without  interruption  or  oral  communication  ?  Can  there  be 
no  sympathy  without  the  gabble  of  words  ?  Away  with  this 
inhuman,  shy,  single,  shade -and -cavern -hunting  solitariness! 
Give  me,  Master  Zimmerman,  a  sympathetic  solitude  ! 

To  pace  alone  in  the  cloisters  or  side-aisles  of  some  cathedral, 
time-stricken, 

'*  Or  under  hanging  mountains, 
Or  by  the  fall  of  "fountains," 

is  but  a  vulgar  luxury  compared  with  that  which  those  enjoy 
who  come  together  for  the  purposes  of  more  complete,  abstracted 
solitude.  This  is  the  loneliness  "  to  be  felt."  The  Abbey  Church 
of  Westminster  hath  nothing  so  solemn,  so  spirit-soothing,  as  the 

24 


370  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

naked  walls  and  benches  of  a  Quakers'  meeting.  Here  are  no 
tombs,  110  inscriptions, 

"  Sand*,  ignoble  things, 
Dropped  from  the  ruined  sides  of  kings;" 

but  here  is  something  which  throws  Antiquity  herself  into 
the  foreground,  —  SILEXCE,  eldest  of  things,  language  of  old 
Night,  primitive  Discourser,  to  which  the  insolent  decays  of 
moldering  grandeur  have  but  arrived  by  a  violent,  and,  as  we 
may  say,  unnatural  progression. 

"  How  reverend  is  the  view  of  these  hushed  heads, 
Looking  tranquillity! " 

Nothing  -  plotting,  naught  -  caballing,  unmischievous  synod  ! 
convocation  without  intrigue!  parliament  without  debate!  what 
a  lesson  dost  tliou  read  to  council  and  to  consistory !  If  my 
pen  treat  of  you  lightly  (as,  haply,  it  will  wander),  yet  my 
spirit  hath  gravely  felt  the  wisdom  of  your  custom,  when,  sitting 
among  you  in  deepest  peace,  which  some  out-welling  tears  would 
rather  confirm  than  disturb,  I  have  reverted  to  the  times  of  your 
beginnings,  and  the  sowing  of  the  seed  by  Fox  and  Dewesbury. 
I  have  witnessed  that  which  brought  before  my  eyes  your  heroic 
tranquillity,  inflexible  to  the  rude  jests  and  serious  violences  of 
the  insolent  soldiery  (Republican  or  Royalist)  sent  to  molest  you  ; 
for  ye  sat  betwixt  the  fires  of  two  persecutions,  —  the  outcast  and 
offscouring  of  church  and  presbytery.  I  have  seen  the  reeling 
sea-ruffian,  who  had  wandered  into  your  receptacle  with  the 
avo\ved  intention  of  disturbing  your  quiet,  from  the  very  spirit  of 
the  place  receive  in  a  moment  a  new  heart,  and  presently  sit 
among  ye  as  a  lamb  amid  lambs.  And  I  remember  Penn  before 
his  accusers,  and  Fox  in  the  bail-dock,  where  he  was  lifted  up  in 
spirit,  as  he  tells  us,  and  "the  judge  and  the  jury  became  as  dead 
men  under  his  feet." 

Reader,  if  you  are  not  acquainted  with  it,  I  would  recommend 
to  you,  above  all  church-narratives,  to  read  Sewel's  "  History  of 
the  Quakers."  It  is  in  folio,  and  is  the  abstract  of  the  journals 
of  Fox  and  the  primitive  Friends.  It  is  far  more  edifying 
and  affecting  than  any  thing  you  will  read  of  Wesley  and  his 
colleagues.  Here  is  nothing  to  stagger  you,  nothing  to  make 
you  mistrust,  no  suspicion  of  alloy,  no  drop  or  dreg  of  the 
worldly  or  ambitious  spirit.  You  will  here  read  the  true  story  of 
that  much-injured,  ridiculed  man  (who  perhaps  hath  been  a  by- 
word in  your  mouth),  James  Naylor.  What  dreadful  sufferings, 
with  what  patience,  he  endured,  even  to  the  boring-through  of 
his  tongue  with  red-hot  irons,  without  a  murmur  !  and  with  what 
strength  of  mind,  when  the  delusion  he  had  fallen  into,  which 


CHARLES   LAMB.  371 

they  stigmatized  for  blasphemy,  had  given  way  to  clearer 
thoughts,  he  could  renounce  his  error  in  a  strain  of  the 
beautifulest  humility,  yet  keep  his  first  grounds,  and  be  a 
Quaker  still!  —  so  different  from  the  practice  of  your  common 
converts  from  enthusiasm,  who,  when  they  apostatize,  apostatize 
all,  and  think  they  can  never  get  far  enough  from  the  society 
of  their  former  errors,  even  to  the  renunciation  of  some  saving 
truths  with  which  they  had  been  mingled,  not  implicated. 

Get  the  writings  of  John  Woolman  by  heart,  and  love  the 
early  Quakers. 

How  far  the  followers  of  these  good  men  in  our  days  have  kept 
to  the  primitive  spirit,  or  in  what  proportion  they  have  substituted 
formality  for  it,  the  Judge  of  spirits  can  alone  determine.  I  have 
seen  faces  in  their  assemblies  upon  which  the  Dove  sat  visibly 
brooding ;  others,  again,  I  have  watched,  when  my  thoughts 
should  have  been  better  engaged,  in  which  I  could  possibly  detect 
nothing  but  a  blank  inanity:  but  quiet  was  in  all,  and  the  dis- 
position to  unanimity,  and  the  absence  of  the  fierce  controversial 
workings.  If  the  spiritual  pretensions  of  the  Quakers  have 
abated,  at  least  they  make  few  pretenses.  Hypocrites  they  cer- 
tainly are  not  in  their  preaching.  It  is  seldom,  indeed,  that  you 
shall  see  one  get  up  among  them  to  hold  forth.  Only  now  and 
then  a  trembling  female  (generally  ancient)  voice  is  heard, — you 
can  not  guess  from  what  part  of  the  meeting  it  proceeds,  — with  a 
low,  buzzing,  musical  sound,  laying  out  a  few  words  which  "  she 
thought  might  suit  the  condition  of  some  present,"  with  a  quaking 
diffidence,  which  leaves  no  possibility  of  supposing  that  anything 
of  female  vanity  was  mixed  up  where  the  tones  were  so  full  of 
tenderness  and  a  restraining  modesty.  The  men,  for  what  I 
have  observed,  speak  seldom er. 

More  frequently,  the  meeting  is  broken  up  without  a  word 
having  been  spoken :  but  the  mind  has  been  fed ;  you  go  away 
with  a  sermon  not  made  with  hands.  You  have  been  in  the 
milder  caverns  of  Trophonius,  or  as  in  some  den  where  that 
fiercest  and  savagest  of  all  wild  creatures,  the  TOXGUE,  that 
unruly  member,  has  strangely  lain  tied  up  and  captive.  You 
have  bathed  with  stillness.  Oh,  when  the  spirit  is  sore  fretted, 
even  tired  to  sickness  of  the  janglings  and  nonsense-noises  of  the 
world,  what  a  balm  and  a  solace  it  is  to  go  and  seat  yourself  for  a 
quiet  half-hour,  upon  some  undisputed  corner  of  a  bench,  among 
the  gentle  Quakers  ! 

Their  garb  and  stillness  conjoined  present  a  uniformity, 
tranquil  and  herdlike,  as  in  the  pasture,  —  "  forty  feeding  like 
one." 

The  very  garments  of  the  Quaker  seem  incapable  of  receiving  a 
soil,  and  cleanliness  in  them  to  be  something  more  than  the  absence 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


of  its  contrary.  Every  Quakeress  is  a  lily :  and  when  they  come 
up  in  bands  to  their  Whitsun-conferences,  whitening  the  easterly 
streets  of  the  metropolis,  from  all  parts  of  the  United  Kingdom, 
they  show  like  troops  of  the  Shining  Ones. 


THE    TWO    RACES   OF    MEN. 

THE  human  species,  according  to  the  best  theory  I  can  form  of 
it,  is  composed  of  two  distinct  races,  —  the  men  who  borrow,  and 
tlie  men  who  lend.  To  these  two  original  diversities  may  be  reduced 
all  those  impertinent  classifications  of  Gothic  and  Celtic  tribes, 
white  men,  black  men,  red  men.  All  the  dwellers  upon  earth  — 
"  Parthians  and  Medes  and  Elamites "  —  flock  hither,  and  do 
naturally  fall  in  with  one  or  other  of  these  primary  distinctions. 
The  infinite  superiority  of  the  former,  which  I  choose  to  designate 
as  the  great  race,  is  discernible  in  their  figure,  port,  and  a  certain 
instinctive  sovereignty.  The  latter  are  born  degraded  :  "  He 
shall  serve  his  brethren."  There  is  something  in  the  air  of  one  of 
this  cast,  lean  and  suspicious,  contrasting  with  the  open,  trusting, 
generous  manners  of  the  other. 

Observe  who  have  been  the  greatest  borrowers  of  all  ages,  — 
Alcibiades,  FalstafF,  Sir  Richard  Steele,  our  late  incomparable 
Brinslev,  —  what  a  family  likeness  in  all  four! 

What  a  careless,  even  deportment  hath  your  borrower!  "What 
rosy  gills  !  what  a  beautiful  reliance  on  Providence  doth  he  mani- 
fest! —  taking  no  more  thought  than  lilies.  What  contempt  for 
money,  accounting  it  (yours  and  mine  especially)  no  better  than 
dross  !  What  a  liberal  confounding  of  those  pedantic  distinctions 
of  meum  and  tuumf  or,  rather,  what  a  noble  simplification  of 
language  (beyond  Tooke),  resolving  these  supposed  opposites  into 
one  clear,  intelligible  pronoun-adjective  !  What  near  approaches 
doth  he  make  to  the  primitive  community!  —  to  the  extent  of  one- 
half  of  the  principle  at  least. 

He  is  the  true  taxer  who  "  calleth  all  the  world  up  to  be 
taxed  ;"  and  the  distance  is  as  vast  between  him  and  one  of  us 
as  subsisted  between  the  Augustan  Majesty  and  the  poorest 
obolary  Jew  that  paid  it  tribute-pittance  at  Jerusalem.  His 
exactions,  too,  have  such  a  cheerful,  voluntary  air!  so  far  removed 
from  your  sour  parochial  or  state-gatherers,  —  those  ink-horn 
varlets  who  carry  their  want  of  welcome  in  their  faces !  He 
cometh  to  you  with  a  smile,  and  troubleth  you  with  no  receipt; 
confining  himself  to  no  set  season.  Every  day  is  his  Candlemas, 
or  his  feast  of  holy  Michael.  He  applieth  the  lene  torment  am  of 
a  pleasant  look  to  your  purse,  which  to  that  gentle  warmth  ex- 
pands her  silken  leaves  as  naturally  aj  the  cloa,k  of  the  traveler, 


CHARLES    LAMB.  373 

<* 

for  which  sun  and  wind  contended.  He  is  the  true  Propontia, 
which  never  ebbeth  ;  the  sea,  which  taketh  handsomely  at  each 
man's  hand.  In  vain  the  victim  whom  he  delighteth  to  honor 
struggles  with  destiny :  he  is  in  the  net.  Lend,  therefore,  cheer- 
fully, O  man  !  ordained  to  lend,  that  thou  lose  not  in  the  end, 
yvitii  thy  worldly  penny,  the  reversion  promised.  Combine  not 
preposterously  in  thine  own  person  the  penalties  of  Lazarus  and 
of  Dives,  but,  when  thou  seest  the  proper  authority  coming, 
meet  it  smilingly,  as  it  were  half  way.  Come,  a  handsome  sacri- 
fice !  See  how  light  he  makes  of  it !  Strain  not  courtesies  with 
a  noble  enemy. 

Reflections  like  the  foregoing  were  forced  upon  my  mind  by 
the  death  of  my  old  friend,  Ralph  Bigod,  Esq.,  who  parted  this 
life  on  Wednesday  evening,  dying  as  he  had  lived,  without  much 
trouble.  He  boasted  himself  a  descendant  from  mighty  ancestors 
of  that  name,  who  heretofore  held  ducal  dignities  in  this  realm. 
In  his  actions  and  sentiments,  he  belied  not  the  stock  to  which  he 
pretended.  Early  in  life,  he  found  himself  invested  with  ample 
revenues,  which,  with  that  noble  disinterestedness  which  I  have 
noticed  as  inherent  in  men  of  the  great  race,  he  took  almost 
immediate  measures  entirely  to  dissipate,  and  bring  to  nothing: 
for  there  is  something  revolting  in  the  idea  of  a  king  holding  a 
private  purse  ;  and  the  thoughts  of  Bigod  were  all  regal.  Thus 
furnished  by  the  very  act  of  disfurnishment ;  getting  rid  of  the 
cumbersome  luggage  of  riches ;  more  apt  (as  one  sings) 

"  To  slacken  Virtue,  and  abate  her  edge. 
Than  prompt  her  to  do  aught  may  merit  praise,"  — 

he  set  forth,  like  some  Alexander,  upon  his  great  enterprise,  — 
"  borrowing  and  to  borrow." 

In  his  periegesis,  or  triumphant  progress,  throughout  this 
island,  it  has  been  calculated  that  he  laid  a  tithe  part  of  the  in- 
habitants under  contribution.  I  reject  this  estimate  as  greatly 
exaggerated;  but,  having  had  the  honor  of  accompanying  my 
friend  divers  times  in  his  perambulations  about  this  vast  city,  I 
own  I  was  greatly  struck  at  first  with  the  prodigious  number  of 
faces  we  met  who  claimed  a  sort  of  respectful  acquaintance  with 
us.  He  was  one  day  so  obliging  as  to  explain  the  phenomenon. 
It  seems  these  were  his  tributaries,  feeders  of  his  exchequer, 
gentlemen,  his  good  friends  (as  he  was  pleased  to  express  him- 
self), to  whom  he  had  occasionally  been  beholden  for  a  loan. 
Their  multitudes  did  no  way  disconcert  him :  he  rather  took  a 
pride  in  numbering  them  ;  and,  with  Comus,  seemed  pleased  to 
be  "stocked  with  so  fair  a  herd." 

With  such  sources,  it  was  a  wonder  how  he  contrived  to  keep 
his  treasury  always  empty.  He  did  it  by  force  of  an  aphorism, 


374  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

which  lie  had  often  in  his  month,  —  that  "  money  kept  longer  than 
three  days  stinks :  "  so  he  made  use  of  it  while  it  was  fresh.  A 
good  part  he  drank  away  (for  he  was  an  excellent  toss-pot) ; 
some  he  gave  away ;  the  rest  he  threw  away,  literally  tossing  and 
hurling  it  violently  from  him  —  as  boys  do  burrs,  or  as  if  it  had 
been  infectious  —  into  ponds  or  ditches  or  deep  holes,  inscrutable 
cavities  of  the  earth;  or  he  would  bury  it  (where  he  would  never 
see  it  again)  by  a  river's  side,  under  some  bank,  which  (he  would 
facetiously  observe)  paid  no  interest :  but  out  away  from  him  it 
must  go  peremptorily,  as  Hagars  offspring  into  the  wilderness, 
while  it  was  sweet:  he  never  missed  it;  the  streams  were  peren- 
nial which  fed  his  fisc.  When  new  supplies  became  necessary, 
the  first  person  that  had  the  felicity  to  fall  in  with  him,  friend  or 
stranger,  was  sure  to  contribute  to  the  deficiency;  for  Bigod  had 
an  undeniable  way  with  him.  He  had  a  cheerful,  open  exterior;  a 
quick,  jovial  eye;  a  bald  forehead,  just  touched  with  gray  (rana 
Jides).  He  anticipated  no  excuse,  and  found  none.  And,  waiving 
for  a  while  my  theory  as  to  the  great  rare,  I  would  put  it  to  the 
most  untheorizing  reader  who  may  at  times  have  disposable  coin 
in  his  pocket,  whether  it  is  not  more  repugnant  to  the  kindliness 
of  his  nature  to  refuse  such  a  one  as  I  am  describing  than  to  say 
no  to  a  poor  petitionary  rogue  (your  bastard  borrower),  who  by 
liis  mumping  visnomy  tells  3-011  that  he  expects  nothing  better, 
and  therefore  whose  preconceived  notions  and  expectations  you 
do  in  reality  so  much  less  shock  in  the  refusal. 

When  I  think  of  this  man,  his  fiery  glow  of  heart,  his  swell 
of  feeling;  how  magnificent,  how  ideal,  he  was  ;  how  great  at  the 
midnight  hour;  and  when  I  compare  with  him  the  companions 
with  whom  I  have  associated  since,  —  I  grudge  the  saving  of  a 
few  idle  ducats,  and  think  that  I  am  fallen  into  the  society  of 
lenders  and  little  men. 


MODERN  GALLANTRY. 

Ix  comparing  modern  with  ancient  manners,  we  are  pleased  to 
compliment  ourselves  upon  the  point  of  gallantry, — a  certain 
obsequiousness  or  deferential  respect  which  we  are  supposed  to 
pay  to  females  as  females. 

I  shall  believe  that  this  principle  actuates  our  conduct  when  I 
can  forget,  that,  in  the  nineteenth  century  of  the  era  from  which 
we  date  our  civility,  we  are  bat  just  beginning  to  leave  off  the 
very  frequent  practice  of  whipping  females  in  public  in  common 
with  the  coarsest  male  offenders. 

I  shall  believe  it  to  be  influential  when  I  can  shut  my  eyes  to 
the  fact,  that,  in  England,  women  are  still  occasionally  hanged. 


CHARLES   LAMB.  875 

I  shall  believe  in  it  when  actresses  are  no  longer  subject  to  be 
hissed  off  a  stage  by  gentlemen.  I  shall  believe  in  it  when 
Dorimant  hands  a  fishwife  across  the  kennel,  or  assists  the  apple- 
woman  to  pick  up  her  wandering  fruit  which  some  unlucky  dray 
has  just  dissipated.  I  shall  believe  in  it  when  the  Dorimants  in 
humbler  life,  who  would  be  thought  in  their  way  notable  adepts 
in  this  refinement,  shall  act  upon  it  in  places  where  they  are  not 
known,  or  think  themselves  not  observed ;  when  I  shall  see  the 
traveler  for  some  rich  tradesman  part  with  his  admired  box-coat 
to  spread  it  over  the  defenseless  shoulders  of  the  poor  woman  who 
is  passing  to  her  parish  on  the  roof  of  the  same  stage-coach  with 
him,  drenched  in  the  rain;  when  I  shall  no  longer  see  a  woman 
standing  up  in  the  pit  of  a  London  theater  till  she  is  sick  and 
faint  with  the  exertion,  with  men  about  her  seated  at  their  ease, 
and  jeering  at  her  distress,  till  one  that  seems  to  have  more 
manners  or  conscience  than  the  rest  significantly  declares  "she 
should  be  welcome  to  his  seat  if  she  were  a  little  younger  and 
handsomer."  Place  this  dapper  warehouseman,  or  that  rider, 
in  a  circle  of  their  own  female  acquaintance,  and  you  shall  con- 
fess you  have  not  seen  a  politer-bred  man  in  Lothbury. 

Lastly,  I  shall  begin  to  believe  there  is  some  such  principle  in- 
fluencing our  conduct  when  more  than  one-half  of  the  drudgery 
and  coarse  servitude  of  the  world  shall  cease  to  be  performed  by 
women.  Until  that  day  comes,  I  shall  never  believe  this  boasted 
point  to  be  any  thing  more  than  a  conventional  fiction,  —  a  pageant 
got  up  between  the  sexes  in  a  certain  rank,  and  at  a  certain  time 
of  life,  in  which  both  find  their  account  equally. 

I  shall  be  even  disposed  to  rank  it  among  the  salutary  fictions 
of  life,  when,  in  polite  circles,  I  shall  see  the  same  attentions  paid 
to  age  as  to  youth,  to  homely  features  as  to  handsome,  to  coarse 
complexions  as  to  clear;  to  the  woman  as  she  is  a  woman,  not 
as  she  is  a  beauty,  a  fortune,  or  a  title.  I  shall  believe  it  to  be 
something  more  than  a  name  when  a  well-dressed  gentleman  in  a 
well-dressed  company  can  advert  to  the  topic  of  female  old  age 
without  exciting,  and  intending  to  excite,  a  sneer;  when  the 
phrases,  "antiquated  virginity,"  and  such  a  one  has  "  overstood 
her  market,"  pronounced  in  good  company,  shall  raise  immediate 
offense  in  man  or  woman  that  shall  hear  them  spoken. 

Joseph  Paice  of  Bread-street  Hill,  merchant,  and  one  of  the  di- 
rectors of  the  South  Sea  Company,  —  the  same  to  whom  Edwards, 
the  Shakspeare  commentator,  has  addressed  a  fine  sonnet, — 
was  the  only  pattern  of  consistent  gallantry  I  have  met  with. 
He  took  me  under  his  shelter  at  an  early  age,  and  bestowed 
some  pains  upon  me.  I  owe  to  his  precepts  and  example  what- 
ever there  is  of  the  man  of  business  (and  that  is  not  much)  in  my 
composition.  It  was  not  his  fault  that  I  did  not  profit  more. 


376  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

Though  bred  a  Presbyterian,  and  brought  up  a  merchant,  lie  wua 
the  finest  gentleman  of  his  time.  He  had  not  one  system  of 
attention  to  females  in  the  drawing-room,  and  another  in  the 
shop  or  at  the  stall.  I  do  not  mean  that  he  made  no  distinction ; 
but  he  never  lost  sight  of  sex,  or  overlooked  it  in  the  casualties  of 
a  disadvantageous  situation.  I  have  seen  him  stand  bare-headed 
—  smile  if  you  please  —  to  a  poor  servant-girl  while  she  has  been 
inquiring  of  him  the  way  to  some  street,  in  such  a  posture  of 
unforced  civility  as  neither  to  embarrass  her  in  the  acceptance, 
nor  himself  in  the  offer  of  it.  He  was  no  dangler,  in  the  common 
acceptation  of  the  word,  after  women  ;  but  he  reverenced  and 
upheld,  in  every  form  in  which  it  came  before  him,  womanhood. 
I  have  seen  him  —  nay,  smile  not  —  tenderly  escorting  a  market- 
woman  whom  he  had  encountered  in  a  shower,  exalting  his  umbrella 
over  her  poor  basket  of  fruit,  that  it  might  receive  no  damage, 
with  as  much  carefulness  as  if  she  had  been  a  countess.  To  the 
reverend  form  of  Female  Eld  he  would  yield  the  wall  (though  it 
were  to  an  ancient  beggar-woman)  with  more  ceremony  than  wo 
can  afford  to  show  our  grandams.  He  was  the  Preux  Chevalier 
of  Age;  the  Sir  Calidore  or  Sir  Tristan  to  those  who  have  no 
Calidores  or  Tristans  to  defend  them.  The  roses  that  had  long 
faded  thence  still  bloomed  for  him  in  those  withered  and  yellow 
cheeks. 

Pie  was  never  married;  but  in  his  youth  he  paid  his  addresses 
to  the  beautiful  Susan  Winstanle}',  —  old  Vf  instanley's  daughter, 
of  Clapton,  —  who,  dying  in  the  early  days  of  their  courtship,  con- 
firmed in  him  the  resolution  of  perpetual  bachelorship.  It  wu3 
during  their  short  courtship,  he  told  me,  that  he  had  been  one  day 
treating  his  mistress  with  a  profusion  of  civil  speeches,  —  the  com- 
mon gallantries,  to  which  kind  of  thing  she  had  hitherto  manifested 
no  repugnance ;  but  in  this  instance  with  no  effect.  He  could  not 
obtain  from  her  a  decent  acknowledgment  in  return :  she  rather 
seemed  to  resent  his  compliments.  He  could  not  set  it  down  to 
caprice ;  for  the  lady  had  always  shown  herself  above  that  littleness. 
When  he  ventured  on  the  following  day,  finding  her  a  little 
better  humored,  to  expostulate  with  her  on  her  coldness  of 
yesterday,  she  confessed,  with  her  usual  frankness,  that  she  had 
no  sort  of  dislike  to  his  attentions;  that  she  could  even  endure 
some  high-flown  compliments ;  that  a  young  woman  placed  in  her 
situation  had  a  right  to  expect  all  sort  of  civil  things  said-to  her; 
that  she  hoped  that  she  could  digest  a  dose  of  adulation, 
short  of  insincerity,  with  as  little  injury  to  her  humility  as  most 
young  women  :  but  that  —  a  little  before  he  had  commenced  his 
compliments  —  she  had  overheard  him,  by  accident,  in  rather 
rough  language,  rating  a  young  wronum  who  had  not  brought 
home  his  cravats  quite  to  the  appointed  time ;  and  she  thought  to 


CHARLES  LAMB.  377 

herself,  "  As  I  am  Miss  Susan  "Winstanley,  and  a  young  lady,  —  a 
reputed  beauty,  and  known  to  be  a  fortune,  —  I  can  have  the 
choice  of  the  finest  speeches  from  the  mouth  of  this  very  fine 
gentleman  who  is  courting  me;  but  if  I  had  been  poor  Mary 
Such-a-one  (naming  the  milliner),  and  had  failed  of  bringing 
home  the  cravats  at  the  appointed  hour,  though  perhaps  I  had 
sat  up  half  the  night  to  forward  them,  what  sort  of  compliments 
should  I  have  received  then  ?  And  my  woman's  pride  came  to  my 
assistance,  and  I  thought,  that,  if  it  were  only  to  do  me  honor,  a 
female  like  myself  might  have  received  handsomer  usage ;  and  I 
was  determined  not  to  accept  any  fine  speeches  to  the  compromise 
of  that  sex,  the  belonging  to  which -was,  after  all,  my  strongest 
claim  and  title  to  them." 

I  think  the  lady  discovered  both  generosity  and  a  just  way  of 
thinking  in  this  rebuke  which  she  gave  her  lover;  and  I  have 
sometimes  imagined  that  the  uncommon  strain  of  courtesy  which 
through  life  regulated  the  actions  and  behavior  of  my  friend 
toward  all  of  womankind  indiscriminately,  owed  its  happy  origin 
to  this  seasonable  lesson  from  the  lips  of  his  lamented  mistress. 

I  wish  the  whole  female  world  would  entertain  the  same 
notion  of  these  things  that  Miss  Winstanley  showed :  then  we 
should  see  something  of  the  spirit  of  consistent  gallantry,  and  no 
longer  witness  the  anomaly  of  the  same  man  a  pattern  of  true 
politeness  to  a  wife,  of  cold  contempt  or  rudeness  to  a  sister,  the 
idolater  of  his  female  mistress,  the  disparager  and  despiser  of 
his  no  less  female  aunt,  or  unfortunate  (still  female)  maiden  cousin. 
Just  so  much  respect  as  a  woman  derogates  from  her  own  sex,  in 
whatever  condition  placed, —  her  handmaid  or  dependant,  —  she 
deserves  to  have  diminished  from  herself  on  that  score,  and  proba- 
bly will  feel  the  diminution  when  youth  and  beauty,  and  ad- 
vantages not  inseparable  from  sex,  shall  lose  of  their  attraction. 
What  a  woman  should  demand  of  a  man  in  courtship,  or  after  it, 
is,  first,  respect  for  her  as  she  is  a  woman ;  and,  next  to  that, 
to  be  respected  by  him  above  all  other  women.  But  let  her  stand 
upon  her  female  character  as  upon  a  foundation  ;  and  let  the 
attentions  incident  to  individual  preference  be  so  many  addita- 
ments  and  ornaments  —  as  many  and  as  fanciful  as  you  please — • 
to  that  main  structure.  Let  her  first  lesson  be  with  sweet  Susan 
Winstanley,  —  to  reverence  her  sex. 


378  ENGLISH   LITERATUKE. 


ESSAYISTS    AND    CRITICS. 

WILLIAM  COBBETT.  —  1762-1835.  " Rural  Rides,"  "Cottage  Economy,"  and 
works  on  America. 

JOHN  FOSTER.  — 1770-1843.     "Decision  of  Character,"  and  other  able  essays. 

WILLIAM  HAZLITT.  — 1778-1S30.  Author  of  "The  Characters  of  Shakspeare's 
Plays,"  "Table-Talk,"  "Lectures  upon  the  English  Poets,"  and  "Life  of  Kapo- 
leon." 

SYDNEY  SMITH.  — 1771-1845.  First  editor  of  "  The  Edinburgh  Review."  The 
most  brilliant  wit  of  his  time.  Author  of  "  Letters  on  the  Subject  of  the  Catholics, 
by  Peter  Plymley,"  "Letters  to  Archdeacon  Singleton,"  and  "Letters  on  the  Penn- 
sylvania Bonds." 

FRANCIS,  Lord  JEFFREY.  — 1773-1850.  The  distinguished  critic  of  "  The  Edin- 
burgh Review."  The  article  on  "  Beauty,"  at  the  beginning  of  this  book,  was  taken 
from  his  volume  of  "  Essays  and  Criticisms." 

WALTER   S.   LANDOR. — 1775-1864.     Author  of  "Imaginary  Conversations," 

"  Gebir,"  "  Count  Julian,"  and  other  shorter  poems. 

JOHN  HORNE  TOOKE.  —  1736-1812.     "  The  Diversions  of  Purley." 

WILLIAM  COMBE.  — 1741-1823.    "Letters  of  the  late  Lord  Lyttleton,"  "Tour 

of  Dr.  Syntax." 

ARCHIBALD  ALISON.  — 1757-1838.     Celebrated  "  Essay  on  Taste." 
ISAAC  DISRAELI.  —  1766-1848.     "Curiosities  of  Literature,"  "Quarrels  of  Au- 
thors," "  Calamities  of  Authors." 

HENRY,  Lord  BROUGHAM.  — 1778-1868.  "Observations  on  Light,"  "States- 
men of  George  III.,"  "  England  under  the  House  of  Lancaster." 

Sir  EGERTON  BRYDGES. — 1762-1837.  "  Censuria  Literaria,"  "  Letters  on  the 
Genius  of  Byron." 

JOHN  WILSON  CROKER.  — 1780-1857.  "Lord  Hervey's  Memoirs  of  the  Court 
of  George  II." 


SCIENTIFIC    WRITERS    AND    SCHOLARS. 

DISTINGUISHED    CHEMISTS. 

Sir  HUMPHRY  DAVY.  — 1778-1829.  Many  valuable  papers  in  "Transactions 
of  the  Royal  Society,"  "  Sahuonia,"  and  "  The  Lust  Duys  of  a  Philosopher." 

Sir  JOHN  HERSCHEL. —  1790.  Distinguished  astronomer.  "Treatises  on  Sound 
and  Light."  "  Outlines  of  Astronomy." 

JEREMY  BENTHAM.  — 1748-1832.  Celebrated  writer  on  law  and  politics. 
"  Fragments  on  Government,"  "  Introduction  to  the  Principles  of  Morals  and  Legis- 
lation," and  others.  A  utilitarian,  his  motto  was,  "The  greatest  happiness  to  the 
greatest  number." 

DUGALD  STEWART.  — 1753-1828.  Metaphysician.  "The  Philosophy  of  the 
Human  Mind,"  "Outlines  of  Moral  Philosophy!" 

DAVID  RIPARDO.  —  1772-1823.  "  The  High  Price  of  Bullion,"  "  The  Principles 
of  Political  Economy  and  Taxation." 

THOMAS  BROWN.  — 1778-1820.  "Lectures  on  the  Philosophy  of  the  Human 
Mind." 

GEORGK  COMBE.  — 1788-1858.  "  Essays  on  Phrenology ;  "  "  The  Constitution  of 
Man,"  a  celebrated  text-book. 


GEORGE  GORDON,  LORD  BYRON.         379 

JOHN  ABERCROMBIE.  1781-1844.  "  The  Intellectual  Powers  and  the  Investi- 
gation of  Truth,"  "  Philosophy  of  the  Moral  Feelings." 

ALEXANDER  WILSON.  —  1766-1813.     "  American  Ornithology." 

J.  RAMSAY  M'CULLOCH.  — 1790-1864.  "Elements  of  Political  Economy," 
"  Dictionary  of  Commerce,"  "  Statistical  Account  of  the  British  Empire." 

ADAM  CLARKE.  —  1760-1832.  Eminent  divine;  Wesleyan  Methodist.  "  A  Com- 
mentary o  i  the  Bible,"  "  Bibliographical  Dictionary." 

ROBERT  HALL.  —  1764-1831.  Distinguished  Baptist  preacher.  "An  Apology 
for  the  Freedom  of  the  Press,"  "  A  Sermon  on  Modern  Infidelity,"  and  other  elo- 
quent sermons. 

EDWARD  IRVING.  — 1792-1834.    Sermons  and  lectures. 

RICHARD  POKSON.  — 1759-1808.  Classical  scholar.  "Euripides,"  "Homer," 
"  J2schylusr"  and  "  Herodotus;  "  "  Notes  ou  Greek  Poets." 


GEORGE  GORDON,  LORD  BYRON. 

1788-1824. 

The  most  distinguished  poet  of  his  time.  His  famous  retort  upon  the  Edinburgh 
critics,  "English  Bards  .and  Scotch  Reviewers,"  shows  how  elegantly  invective,  in- 
spired by  contempt  and  hate,  speaks  English.  His  best  known  works  are  "  Childo 
Harold,"  "The  Giaour,"  "  I'he  Bride  of  Abydos,"  "The  Corsair,"  "Don  Juan," 
and  many  shorter  poems,  "The  Prisoner  of  Chillon,"  "The  Lament  of  Tasso," 
"  The  Prophecy  of  Dante,"  "  The  Vision  of  Judgment,"  and  others  well  known. 


THE  DYING    GLADIATOR. 

THE  seal  is  set.     Now  welcome,  thou  dread  power, 
Nameless,  yet  thus  omnipotent,  which  here    " 
Walk'st  in  the  shadow  of  the  midnight-hour 
"With  a  deep  awe,  yet  all  distinct  from  fear ! 
Thy  haunts  are  ever  where  the  dead  walls  real* 
Their  ivy  mantles ;   and  the  solemn  scene 
Derives  from  thee  a  sense  so  deep  and  clear, 
That  we  become  a  part  of  what  has  been, 
And  grow  unto  the  spot,  all-seeing,  but  unseen. 

And  here  the  buzz  of  eager  nations  raft 
In  murmured  pity  or  loud-roared  applause, 
As  man  was  slaughtered  by  his  fellow-man. 
And  wherefore  slaughtered  ?  —  wherefore,  but  because 
Such  were  the  bloody  circus'  genial  laws, 
And  the  imperial  pleasure  ?     Wherefore  not  ? 
What  matters  where  we  fall  to  fill  the  maws 
Of  worms,  — on  the  battle-plains,  or  listed  spot? 
Both  are  but  theaters  where  the  chief  actors  rot. 


380  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

I  see  before  me  the  gladiator  lie : 
lie  leans  upon  his  hand ;  his  manly  brow 
Consents  to  death,  but  conquers  agony ; 
And  his  drooped  head  sinks  gradually  low  ; 
And  through  his  side  the  last  drops,  ebbing  slow 
From  the  red  gash,  fall  heavy,  one  by  one, 
Like  the  first  of  a  thunder-shower.     And  now 
The  arena  swims  around  him :  he  is  gone 
Ere  ceased  the  inhuman  shout  which  hailed  the  wretch  who  won. 

He  heard  it ;  but  he  heeded  not :  his  eyes 
Were  with  his  heart,  and  that  was  far  away  : 
He  recked  not  of  the  life  he  lost,  nor  prize ; 
But  where  his  rude  hut  by  the  Danube  lay, 
There  were  his  young  barbarians  all  at  play; 
There  was  their  Dacian  mother :  he,  their  sire, 
Butchered  to  make  a  Roman  holiday ! 
All  this  rushed  with  his  blood.     Shall  he  expire, 
And  unavenged  ?     Arise,  ye  Goths,  and  glut  your  ire  1 


APOSTROPHE    TO    THE    OCEAN. 

THERE  is  a  pleasure  in  the  pathless  woods  ; 
There  is  a  rapture  on  the  lonely  shore  ; 
There  is  society,  where  none  intrudes, 
By  the  deep  sea,  and  music  in  its  roar : 
I  love  not  man  the  less,  but  Nature  more, 
From  these  our  interviews,  in  which  I  steal 
From  all  I  may  be,  or  have  been  before, 
To  mingle  with  the  universe,  and  feel 
What  I  can  ne'er  express,  yet  can  not  all  conceal. 

Roll  on,  thou  deep  and  dark  blue  Ocean,  roll ! 
Ten  thousand  fleets  sweep  over  thee  in  vain  : 
Man  marks  the  earth  with  ruin ;  his  control 
Stops  with  the  shore  :  upon  the  watery  plain 
The  wrecks  are  all  thy  deed  ;   nor  doth  remain 
A  shadow  of  man's  ravage,  save  his  own, 
When  for  a  moment,  like  a  drop  of  rain, 
He  sinks  into  thy  depths  with  bubbling  groan, 
Without  a  grave,  unknelled,  uncoffined,  and  unknown. 

His  steps  are  not  upon  thy  paths ;  thy  fields 
Are  not  a  spoil  for  him ;  thou  dost  arise 
And  shake  him  from  thee  ;  the  vile  strength  he  wields 
For  earth's  destruction  thou  dost  all  despise, 
Spurning  him  from  thy  bosom  to  the  skies, 
And  send'st  him,  shivering  in  thy  playful  spray, 
And  howling,  to  his  gods,  where  haply  lies 
His  petty  hope  in  some  near  port  or  bay  ; 
And  dashest  him  again  to  earth,  —  there  let  him  lay ! 


GEORGE  GORDON,  LORD  BYRON.         381 

The  armaments  which  thunderstrike  the  walls 
Of  rock-built  cities,  bidding  nations  quake, 
And  monarchs  tremble  in  their  capitals ; 
The  oak  leviathans,  whose  huge  ribs  make 
Their  clay  creator  the  vain  title  take 
Of  lord  of  thee,  and  arbiter  of  war,  — 
These  are  thy  toys ;  and,  as  the  snowy  flake, 
They  melt  into  thy  yeast  of  wares,  which  mar 
Alike  the  Armada's  pride,  or  spoils  of  Trafalgar. 

Thy  shores  are  empires,  changed  in  all  save  thee. 
Assyria,  Greece,  Rome,  Carthage,  —  what  are  they  ? 
Thy  waters  wasted  them  while  they  were  free, 
And  many  a  tyrant  since ;  their  shores  obey 
The  stranger,  slave,  or  savage ;  their  decay 
Has  dried  up  realms  to  deserts  :  not  so  thou ; 
Unchangeable  save  to  thy  wild  waves'  play, 
Time  writes  no  wrinkle  on  thine  azure  brow : 
Such  as  creation's  dawn  beheld,  thou  rollest  now. 

Thou  glorious  mirror,  where  the  Almighty's  form 
Glasses  itself  in  tempests  ;  in  all  time,  — 
Calm  or  convulsed,  in  breeze  or  gale  or  storm, 
Icing  the  pole,  or  in  the  torrid  clime 
Dark-heaving ;  boundless,  endless,  and  sublime,  — 
The  image  of  Eternity,  the  throne 
Of  the  Invisible :  even  from  out  thy  slime 
The  monsters  of  the  deep  are  made  ;  each  zone 
Obeys  thee ;  thou  goest  forth,  dread,  fathomless,  alone. 

And  I  have  loved  thee,  Ocean  !  and  my  joy 
Of  youthful  sports  was  on  thy  breast  to  be 
Borne,  like  thy  bubbles,  onward  :  from  a  boy 
I  wantoned  with  thy  breakers ;  they  to  me 
Were  a  delight ;  and,  if  the  freshening  sea 
Made  them  a  terror,  'twas  a  pleasing  fear ; 
For  I  was,  as  it  were,  a  child  of  thee, 
And  trusted  to  thy  billows  far  and  near, 
And  laid  my  hand  upon  thy  mane,  as  I  do  here. 


LAKE   GENEVA. 

CLEAR,  placid  Leman  !  thy  contrasted  lake, 
With  the  wild  world  I  dwelt  in,  is  a  thing 
Which  warns  me,  with  its  stillness,  to  forsake 
Earth's  troubled  waters  for  a  purer  spring. 
This  quiet  sail  is  as  a  noiseless  wing 
To  waft  me  from  distraction  :  once  I  loved 
Torn  ocean's  roar ;  but  thy  soft  murmuring 
Sounds  sweet  as  if  a  sister's  voice  reproved, 
That  I  with  stern  delights  should  e'er  have  been  so  moved. 


382  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

It  is  the  hush  of  night ;   and  all  between 
Thv  margin  and  the  mountains,  dusk,  yet  clear, 
Mellowed  and  mingling,  yet  distinctly  seen, 
Save  darkened  Jura,  whose  eapt  hights  appear 
Precipitously  steep  :  and,  drawing  near, 
There  breathes  a  living  fragrance  from  the  shore 
Of  flowers  yet  fresh  with  childhood ;  on  the  ear 
Drops  the  light  drip  of  the  suspended  oar; 
Or  chirps  the  grasshopper  one  good-night  carol  more ; 

He  is  an  evening  reveler,  who  makes 
His  life  and  infancy,  and  sings  his  fill. 
At  intervals,  some  bird  from  out  the  brakes 
Starts  into  voice  a  moment,  then  is  still. 
There  seems  a  floating  whisper  on  the  hill : 
But  that  is  fancy;  for  the  starlight  dews 
All  silently  their  tears  of  love  instill, 
"Weeping  themselves  away,  till  they  infuse 
Deep  into  Nature's  breast  the  spirit  of  her  hues. 

The  sky  is  changed ;  and  such  a  change !     O  night 
And  storm  and  darkness !  ye  are  wondrous  strong, 
Yet  lovely  in  your  strength  as  is  the  light 
Of  a  dark  eye*  in  woman  !     Far  along, 
From  peak  to  peak,  the  rattling  crags  among, 
Leaps  the  live  thunder!     Not  from  one  lone  cloud, 
But  every  mountain  now  hath  found  a  tongue  ; 
And  Jura  answers  through  her  misty  shroud 
Back  to  the  joyous  Alps,  who  call  to  her  aloud! 

And  this  is  in  the  night !     Most  glorious  night ! 
Thou  wert  not  sent  for  slumber:  let  me  be 
A  sharer  in  thy  fierce  and  far  delight, 
A  portion  of  the  tempest  and  of  tliee ! 
How  the  lit  lake  shines,  a  phosphoric  sea ! 
And  the  big  rain  comes  dancing  to  the  earth  ! 
And  now  asjain  'tis  black  ;  and  now  the  glee 
Of  the  loud  hills  shakes  with  its  mountain-mirth, 
As  if  they  did  rejoice  o'er  a  young  earthquake's  birth. 


DESTRUCTION    OF   SENNACHERIB. 

THE  Assyrian  came  down  like  the  wolf  on  the  fold, 
And  his  cohorts  were  gleaming  in  purple  and  gold ; 
And  the  sheen  of  their  spears  was  like  stars  on  the  sea 
When  the  blue  wave  rolls  nightly  on  deep  Galilee. 

Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  when  summer  is  green, 
Tint  host  with  their  banners  at  sunset  were  seen ; 
Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  when  autumn  hath  blown, 
That  host  on  the  morrow  lay  withered  and  strown. 


GEORGE  GORDON,  LORD  BYRON.         383 

For  the  Angel  of  Death  spread  his  wings  on  the  blast, 
And  breathed  on  the  face  of  the  toe  as  he  passed ; 
And  the  eyes  of  the  sleepers  waxed  deadly  and  ehill ; 
And  their  hearts  but  once  heaved,  and  for  ever  grew  still. 

And  there  lay  the  steed  with  his  nostril  all  wide, 
But  through  it  there  rolled  not  the  breath  of  his  pride ; 
And  the  foam  of  his  gasping  lay  white  on  the  turi, 
And  cold  as  the  spray  of  the  rock-beating  surf. 

And  there  lay  the  rider  distorted  and  pale, 
With  the  dew  on  his  brow,  and  the  rust  on  his  mail ; 
And  the  tents  were  all  silent,  the  banners  alone, 
The  lances  unlifted,  the  trumpet  unblown. 

And  the  widows  of  Ashur  are  loud  in  their  wail ; 
And  the  idols  are  broke  in  the  temple  of  Baal ; 
And  the  might  of  the  Gentile,  unsmote  by  the  sword, 
Hath  melted  like  snow  in  the  glance  of  the  Lord ! 


DARKNESS. 

I  HAD  a  dream  which  was  not  all  a  dream. 

The  bright  sun  was  extinguished ;  and  the  stars 

Did  wander  darkling  in  the  eternal  space, 

Rayless  and  pathless ;  and  the  icy  earth 

Swung  blind  and  blackening  in  the  moonless  air. 

Morn  came  and  went  and  came,  and  brought  no  day ; 

And  men  forgot  their  passions  in  the  dread 

Of  this  their  desolation  ;  and  all  hearts 

Were  chilled  into  a  selfish  prayer  for  light. 

And  they  did  live  by  watch-fires;  and  the  thrones, 

The  palaces  of  crowned  kings,  the  huts, 

The  habitations  of  all  things  which  dwell, 

Were  burnt  for  beacons.     Cities  were  consumed  ; 

And  men  were  gathered  round  their  blazing  homes 

To  look  once  more  into  each  other's  face : 

Happy  were  those  who  dwelt  within  the  eye 

Of  the  volcanoes  and  their  mountain-torch  1 

A  fearful  hope  was  all  the  world  contained. 

Forests  were  set  on  fire ;  but  hour  by  hour 

They  fell  and  faded,  and  the  crackling  trunks 

Extinguished  with  a  crash,  and  all  was  black. 

The  brows  of  men  by  the  despairing  light 

Wore  an  unearthly  aspect,  as  by  fits 

The  flashes  fell  upon  them :  some  lay  down, 

And  hid  their  eyes,  and  wept :  and  some  did  rest 

Their  chins  upon  their  clinched  hands,  and  smiled ; 

And  others  hurried  to  and  fro,  and  fed 

Their  funeral  piles  with  fuel,  and  looked  up 

With  mad  disquietude  on  the  dull  sky, 

The  pall  of  a  past  world,  and  then  again 


384  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

With  curses  east  them  down  upon  the  dust, 

And  gnashed  their  teeth,  and  howled.     The  wild  birds  shrieked, 
And,  terrified,  did  flutter  on  the  ground, 
And  flap  their  useless  wings  ;  the  wildest  brutes 
Came  tame  and  tremulous ;  and  vipers  crawled 
And  twined  themselves  among  the  multitude, 
Hissing,  but  stingless,  — they  were  slain  for  food; 
And  War,  which  for  a  moment  was  no  more, 
Did  glut  himself  again.     A  meal  was  bought 
With  blood ;  and  each  sate  sullenly  apart, 
Gorging  himself  in  gloom.     No  love  was  left : 
All  earth  was  but  one  thought,  and  that  was  death, 
Immediate  and  inglorious  ;  and  the  pang 
Of  famine  fed  upon  all  entrails.     Men 
Died,  and  their  bones  were  tombless  as  their  flesh ; 
The  meager  by  the  meager  were  devoured  : 
Even  dogs  assailed  their  masters,  —  all  save  one, 
And  he  was  faithful  to  a  corse,  and  kept 
The  birds  and  beasts  and  famished  men  at  bay, 
Till  hunger  clung  them,  or  the  dropping  dead 
Lured  their  lank  jaws :  himself  sought  out  no  food, 
But  with  a  piteous  and  perpetual  moan, 
And  a  quick,  desolate  cry,  licking  the  hand 
Which  answered  not  with  a  caress,  he  died. 
The  crowd  was  famished  by  degrees :  but  two 
Of  an  enormous  city  did  survive; 
And  they  were  enemies.     They  met  beside 
The  dying  embers  of  an  altar-place, 
Where  had  been  heaped  a  mass  of  holy  things 
For  an  unholy  usage :  they  raked  up, 
And,  shivering,  scraped  with  their  cold  skeleton  hands, 
The  feeble  ashes  ;   and  their  feeble  breath 
Blew  for  a  little  life,  and  made  a  flame 
Which  was  a  mockery  :  then  they  lifted  up 
Their  eyes  as  it  grew  lighter,  and  beheld 
Each  other's  aspects,  —  saw  and  shrieked  and  died,  — 
Even  of  their  mutual  hideousness  they  died, 
Unknowing  who  he  was  upon  whose  brow 
Famine  had  written  fiend.     The  world  was  void ; 
The  populous  and  the  powerful  was  a  lump,  — 
Seasonless,  herbless,  treeless,  manless,  lifeless,  — • 
A  lump  of  death,  —  a  chaos  of  hard  clay. 
The  rivers,  lakes,  and  ocean,  all  stood  still ; 
And  nothing  stirred  within  their  silent  depth. 
Ships,  sailorless.  lay  rotting  on  the  sea ; 
.    And  their  masts  fell  down  piecemeal :  as  they  dropped, 
They  slept  on  the  abyss  without  a  surge. 
The  waves  were  dead ;  the  tides  were  in  their  grave ; 
The  moon,  their  mistress,  had  expired  before ; 
The  winds  were  withered  in  the  stagnant  air ; 
And  the  clouds  perished.     Darkness  had  no  need 
Of  aid  from  them :  she  was  the  universe. 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT.  385 

SIR    WALTER    SCOTT. 

1771-1832.    BORN  IN  EDINBURGH, 

The  celebrated  author  of  "  The  Waverley  Novels,"  "  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel," 
"  Marmion,"  and  "  Lady  of  the  Lake,"  all  having  an  historical  groundwork.  His 
"Life  of  Napoleon'"  was  written  too  near  the  time  and  place  of  the  events  com- 
memorated, and  by  too  much  of  an  Englishman,  to  do  justice  to  the  subject.  A 
prodigy  of  industry,  and  the  soul  of  honor  as  a  man. 

THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE. 
THE  GUARD-ROOM. 

THE  sun,  awakening,  through  the  smoky  air 
Of  the  dark  city  casts  a  sullen  glanee, 
Rousing  each  caitiff'  to  his  task  of  care,  — 
Of  sinful  man  the  sad  inheritance ; 
Summoning  revelers  from  the  lagging  dance  ; 
Scaring  the  prowling  robber  to  his  den  ; 
Gilding  on  battled  tower  the  warder's  lance  ; 
And  warning  student  pale  to  leave  his  pen, 
And  yield  his  drowsy  eyes  to  the  kind  nurse  of  men. 

What  various  scenes,  and,  oh  !  what  scenes  of  woe, 
Are  witnessed  by  that  red  and  struggling  beam  ! 
The  fevered  patient,  from  his  pallet  low, 
Through  crowded  hospital  beholds  .it  stream  ; 
The  ruined  maiden  trembles  at  its  gleam  ; 
The  debtor  wakes  to  thoughts  of  gyve  and  jail ; 
The  lovelorn  wretch  starts  from  tormenting  dream ; 
The  wakeful  mother,  by  the  glimmering  pale. 
Trims  her  sick  infant's  couch,  and  soothes  his  feeble  wail. 

At  dawn,  the  towers  of  Stirling  rang 
With  soldier-step  and  weapon-clang  ; 
While  drums,  with  rolling  note,  foretell 
Relief  to  weary  sentinel. 
Through  narrow  loop,  and  casement  barred, 
The  sunbeams  sought  the  Court  of  Guard, 
And,  struggling  with  the  smoky  air, 
Deadened  the  torches'  yellow  glare. 
In  comfortless  alliance  shone 
The  lights  through  arch  of  blackened  stone, 
And  showed  wild  shapes  in  garb  of  war,  — 
Faces  deformed  with  beard  and  scar, 
All  haggard  from  the  midnight  watch, 
And  fevered  with  the  stern  debauch ; 
For  the  oak  table's  massive  board, 
Flooded  with  wine,  with  fragments  stored, 
26 


38(5         •  ENGLISH  LITERATURE, 

And  beakers  drained  ,  and  cups  o'erthrown,, 
Showed  in  what  sport  the  night  had  flown. 
Some,  weary,  snored  on  floor  and  bench  ; 
Some  labored 'still  their  thirst  to  quench  ; 
Some,  chilled  with  watching,  spread  their  hands 
O'er  the  huge  chimney's  dying  brands, 
While,  round  them  or  beside  them  flung, 
At  every  step  their  harness  rung. 

These  drew  not  for  their  fields  the  sword 

Like  tenants  of  a  feudal  lord, 

Nor  owned  the  patriarchal  claim 

Of  chieftain  in  their  leader's  name  : 

Adventurers  they  from  far,  who  roved 

To  live  by  battle,  which  they  loved. 

There  the  Italian's  clouded  face ; 

The  swarthy  Spaniard's  there  you  trace  ; 

The  mountain-loving  Switzer  there 

More  freely  breathed  in  mountain-air  ; 

The  Fleming  there  despised  the  soil 

That  paid  so  ill  the  laborer's  toil. 

Their  rolls  showed  French  and  German  name ; 

And  merry  England's  exiles  came 

To  share  with  ill-concealed  disdain 

Of  Scotland's  pay  the  scanty  gain,  — 

All  brave  in  arms,  well  trained  to  wield 

The  heavy  halbert,  brand,  and  shield: 

In  camps,  licentious,  wild,  and  bold; 

In  pillage,  fierce  and  uncontrolled  ; 

And  now,  by  holytide  and  feast, 

From  rules  of  discipline  released. 


They  held  debate  of  bloody  fray 

Fought  'twixt  Loch  Katrine  and  Achray. 

Fierce  was  their  speech  ;  and,  'mid  their  words, 

Their  hands  oft  grappled  to  their  swords ; 

Nor  sank  their  tone  to  spare  the  ear 

Of  wounded  comrades  groaning  near, 

Whose  mangled  limbs  and  bodies  gored 

Bore  token  of  the  mountain  sword, 

Though,  neighboring  to  the  Court  of  Guard, 

Their  prayers  and  feverish  wails  were  heard  ; 

Sad  burdened  to  the  ruffian  joke, 

And  savage  oath  by  fury  spoke. 

At  length  upstarted  John  of  Brent, 

A  yeoman  from  the  banks  of  Trent, 

A  stranger  to  respect  or  fear, 

In  peace  a  chaser  of  the  deer, 

In  host  a  hardy  mutineer, 

But  still  the  boldest  of  the  crew 

When  deed  of  danger  was  to  do. 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT.  387 

He  grieved,  that  day,  their  games  cut  short, 

And  marred  the  dicers'  brawling  sport ; 

And  shouted  loud,  "  Renew  the  bowl  1 

And,  while  a  merry  catch  I  troll, 

Let  each  the  buxom  chorus  bear, 

Like  brethren  of  the  brand,  and  spear." 

SOLDIER'S  SONG. 

Our  vicar  still  preaches  that  Peter  and  Poule 

Laid  a  swinging  long  curse  on  the  bonny  brown  bowl ; 

That  there's  wrath  and  despair  in  the  jolly  black  jack, 

And  seven  deadly  sins  in  a  flagon  of  sack. 

Yet  whoop,  Barnaby  !  oflf  with  thy  liquor, 

Drink  upsees  out,  and  a  fig  for  the  vicar  \ 

Our  vicar  he  calls  it  damnation  to  sip 

The  ripe,  ruddy  dew  of  a  woman's  dear  lip ; 

Says  that  Beelzebub  lurks  in  her  kerchief  so  sly, 

And  Apollyon  shoots  darts  from  her  merry  black  eye. 

Yet  whoop,  Jack  !  kiss  Gillian  the  quicker,        .1. 

Till  she  bloom  like  a  rose  ;  and  a  fig  for  the  vicar  ! 

Our  vicar  thus  preaches ;  and  why  should  he  not  ? 
For  the  dues  of  his  cure  are  the  placket  and  pot ; 
And  'tis  right  of  his  office  poor  laymen  to  lurch 
Who  infringe  the  domains  of  our  good  mother-church. 
Yet  whoop,  bully-boys  !  off  with  your  liquor  ; 
Sweet  Marjorie's  the  word,  and  a  fig  for  the  vicar  I 

The  warder's  challenge  heard  without 

Stayed  in  mid  roar  the  merry  shout. 

A  soldier  to  the  portal  went :  — 

"  Here  is  old  Bertram,  sirs,  of  Ghent ; 

And  —  beat  for  jubilee  the  drum  !  — 

A  maid  and  minstrel  with  him  come." 

Bertram,  a  Fleming,  gray  and  scarred, 

Was  entering  now  the  Court  of  Guard ; 

A  harper  with  him ;  and,  in  plaid 

All  muffled  close,  a  mountain-maid, 

Who  backward  shrank  to  'scape  the  view 

Of  the  loose  scene  and  boisterous  crew. 

"  What  news  ?  "  they  roared.    "  I  only  know 

From  noon  till  eve  we  fought  with  foe 

As  wild  and  as  untamable 

As  the  rude  mountains  where  they  dwell. 

On  both  sides,  store  of  blood  is  lost : 

Not  much  success  can  either  boast." 

"  But  whence  thy  captives,  friend  ?  such  spoil 

As  theirs  must  need  reward  thy  toil. 

Old  dost  thou  wax,  and  wars  grow  sharp : 

Thou  now  hast  glee-maiden  and  harp ; 

Get  thee  an  ape,  and  trudge  the  land, 

The  leader  of  a  juggler-band." 


388  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

"  No,  comrade  ;  no  such  fortune  mine. 

After  the  fight,  these  sought  our  line,  — 

That  aged  harper  arfd  the  girl ; 

And,  having  audience  of  the  earl, 

Mar  bade  I  should  purvey  them  steed, 

And  bring  them  hitherward  with  speed. 

Forbear  your  mirth  and  rude  alarm ; 

For  none  shall  do  them  shame  or  harm." 

"  Hear  ye  his  boast,"  cried  John  of  Brent, 

Ever  to  strife  and  jangling  bent  : 

"  Shall  he  strike  doe  beside  our  lodge, 

And  yet  the  jealous  niggard  grudge 

To  pay  the  forester  his  ice  ? 

I'll  have  my  share,  howe'er  it  be, 

Despite  of  "Moray,  Mar,  or  thee  !  " 

Bertram  his  forward  step  withstood  ; 

And,  burning  in  his  vengeful  mood, 

Old  Allan,  though  unfit  for  strife, 

Laid  hand  upon  his  dagger-knife  : 

But  Ellen  boldly  stepped  between, 

And  dropped  at  once  the  tartan  screen. 

So  from  his  morning  cloud  appears 

The  sun  of  May  through  summer  tears. 

The  savage  soldiery,  amazed, 

As  on  descended  angel  gazed  : 

Even  hardy  Brent,  abashed  and  tamed, 

Stood  half  admiring,  half  ashamed. 

Boldly  she  spoke :  "  Soldiers,  attend ! 
My  father  was  the  soldier's  friend  ; 
Cheered  him  in  camps,  in  marches  led, 
And  with  him  in  the  battle  bled. 
Not  from  the  valiant  or  the  strong 
Should  exile's  daughter  suffer  wron-j." 
Answered  De  Brent,  most  forward  still 
In  every  feat  of  good  or  ill : 
"  I  shame  me  of  the  part  I  played  ; 
And  thou  an  outlaw's  child,  poor  maid  1 
An  outlaw  I  by  forest  laws  ; 
And  merry  Needwood  knows  the  cause. 
Poor  Rose,  if  Rose  be  living  now,  — 
He  wjped  his  iron  eye  and  brow,  — 
"  Must  bear  such  age,  I  think,  as  thou. 
Hear  ye,  my  mates  !  I  go  to  call 
The  captain  of  our  watch  to  hall : 
There  lies  my  halbert  on  the  floor ; 
And  he  that  steps  my  halbert  o'er 
To  do  the  maid  injurious  part, 
My  shaft  shall  quiver  in  his  heart ! 
Beware  loose  speech,  or  jesting  rough. 
Ye  all  knoAv  John  de  Brent.     Enough." 
Their  captain  came,  —  a  gallant  young, 
(Of  Tullibardine's  house  he  sprung,) 


SIR  WALTER   SCOTT.  389 

Nor  wore  he  yet  the  spur  of  knight ; 

Gay  was  his  mien,  his  humor  light ; 

And,  though  by  courtesy  controlled, 

Forward  his  speech,  his  bearing  bold. 

The  high-born  maiden  ill  could  brook 

The  scanning  of  his  curious  look 

And  dauntless  eye  ;  and  yet,  in  sooth, 

Young  Lewis  was  a  generous  youth : 

But  Ellen's  lovely  face  and  mien, 

111  suited  to  the  guard  and  scene, 

Must  lightly  bear  construction  strange, 

And  give  loose  fancy  scope  to  range. 

"  Welcome  to  Stirling  towers,  fair  maid ! 

Come  ye  to  seek  a  champion's  aid 

On  palfrey  white  with  harper  hoar, 

Like  errant  damosel  of  yore  ? 

Does  thy  high  quest  a  knight  require  ? 

Or  may  the  venture  suit  a  squire  ?  " 

Her  dark  eye  flashed  :  she  paused  and  sighed, 

"  Oh  !  what  have  I  to  do  with  pride  ? 

Through  scenes  of  sorrow,  shame,  and  strife, 

A  suppliant  for  a  father's  life, 

I  crave  an  audience  of  the  king. 

Behold,  to  back  my  suit,  a  ring, 

The  royal  pledge  of  grateful  claims 

Given  by  the  monarch  to  Fitz-James ! " 

The  signet-ring  young  Lewis  took 
With  deep  respect  and  altered  look, 
And  said,  "  This  ring  our  duties  own  ; 
And  pardon,  if  to  worth  unknown, 
In  semblance  mean,  obscurely  veiled, 
Lady,  in  aught  my  folly  failed. 
Soon  as  the  day  flings  wide  the  gates, 
The  king  shall  know  what  suitor  waits. 
Please  you,  meanwhile,  in  fitting  bower 
Repose  you  till  his  waking  hour : 
Female  attendance  shall  obey 
Your  hest  for  service  or  array : 
Permit,  I  marshal  you  the  way." 
But,  ere  she  followed,  with  the  grace 
And  open  bounty  of  her  race 
She  bade  her  slender  purse  be  shared 
Among  the  soldiers  of  the  guard. 
The  rest  with  thanks  their  guerdon  took. 
But  Brent,  with  shy  and  awkward  look, 
On  the  reluctant  maiden's  hold 
Forced  bluntly  back  the  proffered  gold : 
"  Forgive  a  haughty  English  heart ; 
And,  oh  !  forget  its  ruder  part. 
The  vacant  purse  shall  be  my  share, 
Which  in  my  barret-cap  I'll  bear. 


390  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Perchance,  in  jeopardy  of  war, 

Where  gayer  crests  may  keep  afar." 

"With  thanks  —  'twas  all  she  could  —  the  maid 

His  rugged  courtesy  repaid. 

When  Ellen  forth  with  Lewis  went, 
Allan  made  suit  to  John  of  Brent : 
"  My  lady  safe,  oh !  let  your  grace 
Give  me  to  see  my  master's  face  : 
His  minstrel  I,  to  share  his  doom 
Bound  from  the  cradle  to  the  tomb. 
Tenth  in  descent,  since  first  my  sires 
Waked  for  his  noble  house  their  lyres ; 
Nor  one  of  all  the  race  was  known 
But  prized  its  weal  above  their  own. 
With  the  chief's  birth  begins  our  care  : 
Our  harp  must  soothe  the  infant  heir, 
Teach  the  youth  tales  of  fight,  and  grace 
His  earliest  feat  of  field  or  chase. 
In  peace,  in  war,  our  rank  we  keep : 
We  cheer  his  board  ;  we  soothe  his  sleep ; 
Nor  leave  him  till  we  pour  our  verse, 
A  doleful  tribute,  o'er  his  hearse. 
Then  let  me  share  his  captive  lot : 
It  is  my  right ;  deny  it  not  !  " 
"  Little  we  reck,"  said  John  of  Brent, 
"  We  southern  men,  of  long  descent ; 
Nor  wot  we  how  a  name,  a  word, 
Makes  clansmen  vassals  to  a  lord : 
Yet  kind  my  noble  landlord's  part ; 
(God  bless  the  house  of  Beaudesert !) 
And,  but  I  loved  to  drive  the  deer 
More  than  to  guide  the  laboring  steer, 
I  had  not  dwelt  an  outcast  here. 
Come,  good  old  minstrel,  follow  me  : 
Thy  lord  and  chieftain  shalt  thou  see." 

Then  from  a  rusted  iron  hook 
A  bunch  of  ponderous  keys  he  took, 
Lighted  a  torch,  and  Allan  led 
Through  grated  arch  and  passage  dread. 
Portals  they  passed,  where,  deep  within, 
Spoke  prisoner's  moan  and  fetters  dim  ; 
Through  rugged  vaults,  where,  loosely  stored, 
Lay  wheel  and  ax,  and  headsman's  sword, 
And  many  a  hideous  engine  grim 
For  wrenching  joint  and  crushing  limb, 
By  artists  formed  who  deemed  it  shame 
And  sin  to  give  their  work  a  name. 
They  halted  at  a  low-browed  porch ; 
And  Brent  to  Allan  gave  the  torch, 
While  bolt  and  chain  he  backward  rolled, 
And  made  the  bar  unhasp  its  hold. 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT.  391 

They  entered.     'Twas  a  prison-room 

Of  stern  security  and  gloom ; 

Yet  not  a  dungeon,  for  the  day 

Through  lofty  gratings  found  its  wayj 

And  rude  and  antique  garniture 

Decked  the  sad  walls  and  oaken  floor, — 

Such  as  the  rugged  days  of  old 

Deemed  fit  for  captive  noble's  hold, 

"  Here,"  said  De  Brent,  "  thou  mayst  remain 

Till  the  Leach  visit  him  again. 

Strict  is  his  charge,  the  warders  tell, — 

To  tend  the  noble  prisoner  well." 

Retiring  then,  the  bolt  he  drew ; 

And  the  lock's  murmurs  .growled  anew, 

Roused  at  the  sound,  from  lowly  bed 

A  captive  feebly  raised  his  head : 

The  wondering  minstrel  looked,  and  knew, 

Not  his  dear  lord,  but  Roderick  Dhu ; 

For,  come  from  where  Clan-Alpine  fought, 

They,  erring,  deemed  the  chief  he  sought. 

As  the  tall  ship,  whose  lofty  prore 

Shall  never  stem  the  billows  more, 

Deserted  by  her  gallant  band, 

Amid  the  breakers  lies  astrand  : 

So  on  his  couch  lay  Roderick  Dhu  ; 

And  oft  his  fevered  limbs  he  threw 

In  toss  abrupt,  as  when  her  sides 

Lie  rocking  in  the  advancing  tides 

That  shake  her  frame  with  ceaseless  beat, 

Yet  can  not  heave  her  from  her  seat. 

Oh  1  how  unlike  her  course  on  sea, 

Or  his  free  step  on  hill  and  lea ! 

Soon  as  the  minstrel  he  could  scan, 

"  What  of  thy  lady  ?  of  my  clan  ? 

My  mother  ?  Douglas  ?  —  tell  me  all. 

Have  they  been  ruined  in  my  fall  ? 

Ah,'  yes !  or  wherefore  art  thou  here  ? 

Yet  speak,  speak  boldly  1  do  not  fear." 

(For  Allan,  who  his  mood  well  knew, 

Was  choked  with  grief  and  terror  too.) 

«  Who  fought  ?  who  fled  ?     Old  man,  be  brief. 

Some  might ;  for  they  had  lost  their  chief. 

Who  basely  live  ?  who  bravely  died  ?  "  — 

"  Oh,  calm  thee,  chief ! "  the  minstrel  cried  : 

"  Ellen  is  safe."  —  "  For  that,  thank  Heaven  J  "  — 

"  And  hopes  are  for  the  Douglas  given ; 

The  Lady  Margaret,  too,  is  well ; 

And  for  thy  clan,  on  field  or  fell, 

Has  never  harp  of  minstrel  told 

Of  combat  fought  so  true  and  bold. 

Thy  stately  pine  is  still  unbent, 

Though  many  a  goodly  bough  is  rent." 


392  ENGLISH  LILEKATURE, 

The  chieftain  reared  his  form  on  highr 

And  fever's  fire  was  in  his  eye  ; 

But  ghastly,  pale,  and  lit  id  streaks 

Checkered  his  swarthy  brow  and  cheeks. 

**  Hark,  minstrel !  I  have  heard  thee  play 

With  measure  bold  on  festal  day 

In  yon  lone  isle,  .  .  .  again  where  ne'er 

Shall  harper  play  or  warrior  hear,  .  .  . 

That  stirring  air  that  peals  on  high, 

O'er  Dermid's  race  our  victory. 

Strike  it !  and  then  (for  well  thou  canst) 

Free  from  thy  minstrel-spirit  glanced, 

Fling  me  the  picture  of  the  fight 

When  met  my  clan  the  Saxon  might. 

I'll  listen  till  my  fancy  hears 

The  clang  of  swords,  the  crash  of  spears  ; 

These  grates,  these  walls,  shall  vanish  then. 

For  the  fair  field  of  fighting-men, 

And  my  free  spirit  burst  away 

As  if  it  soared  from  battle  fray." 

The  trembling  bard  with  awe  obeyed : 

Slow  on  the  harp  his  hand  he  laid  ; 

But  soon  remembrance  of  the  sight 

He  witnessed  from  the  mountain's  hight, 

With  what  old  Bertram  told  at  night, 

Awakened  the  full  power  of  song, 

And  bore  him  in  career  along, 

As  shallop  launched  on  river's  tide, 

That  slow  and  fearful  leaves  the  side, 

But,  when  it  feels  the  middle  stream, 

Drives  downward  swift  as  lightning's  beam. 

BATTLE   OF   BEAL*   AN    DUIXE. 

"  The  minstrel  came  once  more  to  view 
The  eastern  ridge  of  Ben-venue  ; 
For,  ere  he  parted,  he  would  say 
Farewell  to  lovely  Loch-Achray  : 
Where  shall  he  find  in  foreign  land 
So  pure  a  lake,  so  sweet  a  strand  V 
There  is  no  breeze  upon  the  fern, 

No  ripple  on  the  lake ; 
Upon  her  eyrie  nods  the  erne ; 

The  deer  has  sought  the  brake ; 
The  small  birds  will  not  sing  aloud  ; 

The  springing  trout  lies  still ; 
So  darkly  glooms  yon  thunder-cloud, 
That  swathes  as  with  a  purple  shroud 

Benledi's  distant  hill. 
Is  it  the  thunder's  solemn  sound 

That  mutters  deep  and  dread  ? 
Or  echoes  from  the  groaning  ground 

The  warrior's  measured  tread  ? 


SIK  WALTER   SCOTT.  393 

Is  it  the  lightning's  quivering  glance 

That  on  the  thicket  streams  ? 
Or  do  they  flash  on  spear  and  lance,  — 

The  sun's  retiring  beams  ? 
I  see  the  dagger-crest  of  Mar, 
I  see  the  Moray's  silver  star, 
Wave  o'er  the  cloud  of  Saxon  war, 
That  up  the  lake  comes  winding  far : 
To  hero  bound  for  battle-strife, 

Or  bard  of  martial  lay, 
'Twere  worth  ten  years  of  peaceful  life,  — • 

One  glance  at  their  array  ! 

"  Their  light-armed  archers  far  and  near 

Surveyed  the  tangled  ground ; 
Their  center  ranks,  with  pike  and  spear, 

A  twilight  forest  frowned  ; 
Their  barbed  horsemen,  in  the  rear, 

The  stern  battalia  crowned. 
No  cymbal  clashed,  no  clarion  rang ; 

Still  were  the  pipe  and  drum ; 
Save  heavy  tread,  and  armor's  clang, 

The  sullen  march  was  dumb. 
There  breathed  no  wind  their  crests  to  shake, 

Or  wave  their  flags  abroad  ; 
Scarce  the  frail  aspen  seemed  to  quake, 

That  shadowe'd  o'er  their  road. 
Their  vaward  scouts  no  tidings  bring 

Can  rouse  no  lurking  foe, 
Nor  spy  a  trace  of  living  thing, 

Save  when  they  stirred  the  roe ; 
The  host  moves  like  a  deep  sea-wave 
Where  rise  no  rocks  its  pride  to  brave,  — 

High-swelling,  dark,  and  slow. 
The  lake  is  passed  ;  and  now  they  gain 
A  narrow  and  a  broken  plain, 
Before  the  Trosachs'  rugged  jaws  : 
And  here  the  horse  and  spearmen  pause ; 
While,  to  explore  the  dangerous  glen, 
Dive  through  the  pass  the  archer-men. 

"At  once  there  rose  so  wild  a  yell 
Within  that  dark  and  narrow  dell, 
As  all  the  fiends  from  heaven  that  fell 
Had  pealed  the  banner-cry  of  hell. 
Forth  from  the  pass  in  tumult  driven, 
Like  chalF  before  the  wind  of  heaven, 

The  archery  appear. 
For  life,  for  life,  their  flight  they  ply ; 
And  shriek  and  shout  and  battle-cry, 
And  plaids  and  bonnets  waving  high, 
And  broadswords  flashing  to  the  sky, 

Are  maddening  in  their  rear. 


394  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

Onward  they  drive  in  dreadful  race, 

Pursuers  and  pursue!  1 ; 
Before  that  tide  of  flight  and  chase, 
How  shall  it  keep  its  rooted  place, 

The  spearmen's  twilight  wood  ? 
*  Down,  down  ! '  cried  Mar,  '  your  lances  down  1 

Bear  back  both  friend  and  foe  ! ' 
Like  reeds  before  the  tempest's  frown, 
That  serried  grove  of  lances  brown 

At  once  lay  leveled  low ; 
And,  closely  shouldering  side  to  side, 
The  bristling  ranks  the  onset  bide. 
'  We'll  quell  the  savage  mountaineer, 

As  their  Tinchel  cows  the  game  : 
They  come  as  fleet  as  forest  deer ; 

We'll  drive  them  back  as  tame.' 

"  Bearing  before  them  in  their  course 
The  relics  of  the  archer  force, 
Like  wave  with  crest  of  sparkling  foam, 
Right  onward  did  Clan-Alpine  come. 
Above  the  tide,  each  broadsword  bright 
Was  brandishing  like  beam  of  light ; 

Each  targe  was  dark  below ; 
And,  with  the  ocean's  mighty  swing 
When  heaving  to  the  tempest's  whig, 

They  hurled  them  on  the  foe. 
I  heard  the  lance's  shivering  crash 
As  when  the  whirlwind  rends  the  ash  ; 
I  heard  the  broadsword's  deadly  clang 
As  if  a  hundred  anvils  rang : 
But  Moray  wheeled  his  rearward  rank 
Of  horsemen  on  Clan- Alpine's  flank. 

'  My  banner-man,  advance  ! 
I  see,'  he  cried,  '  their  column  shake  ! 
Now,  gallants,  for  your  ladies'  sake, 

Upon  them  with  the  lance  ! ' 
The  horsemen  dashed  among  the  rout 

As  deer  break  through  the  broom : 
•  Their  steeds  are  stout,  their  swords  are  out ; 

They  soon  make  lightsome  room. 
Clan- Alpine's  best  are  backward  borne, 

(Where,  where,  was  Roderick  then  ? 
One  blast  upon  his  bugle-horn 

Were  worth  a  thousand  men ;) 
And  refluent  through  the  pass  of  fear 

The  battle's  tide  was  poured : 
Vanished  the  Saxon's  struggling  spear, 

Vanished  the  mountain  sword. 
As  Bracklinn's  chasm,  so  black  and  steep, 

Receives  her  roaring  linn  ; 
As  the  dork  caverns  of  the  deep 

Suck  the  wild  whirlpool  in  : 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT.  395 

So  did  the  deep  and  darksome  pass 
Devour  the  battle's  mingled  mass; 
None  linger  now  upon  the  plain 
Save  those  who  ne'er  shall  fight  again. 

"  Now  westward  rolls  the  battle's  din 
That  deep  and  doubling  pass  within. 
Minstrel,  away  !  the  work  of  fate 
Is  bearing  on  :  its  issue  wait 
Where  the  rude  Trosachs'  dread  defile 
Opens  on  Katrine's  lake  and  isle. 
Gray  Ben-venue  I  soon  repassed  ; 
Loch  Katrine  lay  beneath  me  cast 
The  sun  is  set,  the  clouds  are  met; 

The  lowering  scowl  of  heaven 
An  inky  hue  of  livid  blue 

To  the  deep  lake  has  given ; 
Strange  gusts  of  wind  from  mountain-glen 
Swept  o'er  the  lake,  then  sunk  again. 
I  heeded  not  the  eddying  surge ; 
Mine  eye  but  saw  the  Trosachs'  gorge ; 
Mine  ear  but  heard  that  sullen  sound 
Which  like  an  earthquake  shook  the  ground, 
And  spoke  the  stern  and  desperate  strife 
That  parts  not  but  with  parting  life, 
Seeming,  to  minstrel-ear,  to  toil 
The  dirge  of  many  a  passing  soul. 
Nearer  it  comes;  the  dim  wood-glen 
The  martial  flood  disgorged  again, 

But  not  in  mingled  tide : 
The  plaided  warriors  of  the  north 
High  on  the  mountain  thunder  forth, 

And  overhang  its  side ; 
While  by  the  lake  below  appears 
The  darkening  cloud  of  Saxon  spears. 
At  weary  bay  each  shattered  band, 
Eying  their  fbemen,  sternly  stand  ; 
Their  banners  stream  like  tattered  sail 
That  flings  its  fragment  to  the  gale  ; 
And  broken  arms  and  disarray 
Marked  the  fell  havoc  of  the  day. 

"  Viewing  the  mountain's  ridge  askance, 
The  Saxons  stood  in  sullen  trance 
Till  Moray  pointed  with  his  lance, 

And  cried,  '  Behold  yon  isle  ! 
See !  none  are  left  to  guard  its  strand, 
But  women  weak,  that  wring  the  hand. 
'Tis  there  of  yore  the  robber-band 

Their  booty  wont  to  pile  ; 
My  purse,  with  bonnet-pieces  store, 
To  him  will  swim  a  bow-shot  o'er, 
And  loose  a  shallop  from  the  shore. 


396  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Lightly  we'll  tame  the  war- wolf  then, 
Lords  of  his  mate,  and  brood  and  den/ 
Forth  from  the  ranks  a  Spearman  sprung ; 
On  earth  his  casque  and  corselet  rung : 

He  plunged  him  in  the  wave. 
All  saw  the  deed,  the  purpose  knew ; 
And  to  their  clamors  Ben-venue 

A  mingled  echo  gave : 
The  Saxons  shout  their  mate  to  cheer ; 
The  helpless  females  scream  for  fear; 
And  yells  for  rage  the  mountaineer. 
'Tvvas  then,  as  by  the  outcry  riven, 
Poured  down  at  once  the  lowering  heaven  : 
A  whirlwind  swept  Loch  Katrine's  breast ; 
Her  billows  reared  their  snowy  crest. 
Well  for  the  swimmer  swelled  they  high 
To  mar  the  Highland  marksman's  eye  ; 
For  round  him  showered,  'mid  rain  and  hail, 
The  vengeful  arrows  of  the  Gael. 
In  vain.     He  nears  the  isle ;  and,  lo  ! 
His  hand  is  on  a  shallop's  bow. 
Just  then,  a  flash  of  lightning  came ; 
It  tinged  the  waves  and  strand  with  flame. 
I  marked  Duncraggan's  widowed  dame : 
Behind  an  oak  I  saw  her  stand, 
A  naked  dirk  gleamed  in  her  hand. 
It  darkened  ;  but  amid  the  moan 
Of  waves  I  heard  a  dying  groan  : 
Another  flash ;  the  spearman  floats 
A  weltering  corse  beside  the  boats ; 
And  the  stern  matron  o'er  him  stood, 
Her  hand  and  dagger  streaming  blood. 

"  '  Revenge,  revenge  ! '  the  Saxons  cried  ; 

The  Gaels'  exulting  shout  replied. 

Despite  the  elemental  rage, 

Again  they  hurried  to  engage  ; 

But,  ere  they  closed  in  desperate  fight, 

Bloody  with  spurring  came  a  knight, 

Sprang  from  his  horse,  apd  from  a  crag 

Waved  'twixt  the  hosts  a  milk-white  flag. 

Clarion  and  trumpet  by  his  side 

Rang  forth  a  truce-note  high  and  wide ; 

While  in  the  monarch's  name  afar 

A  herald's  voice  forbade  the  war ; 

For  Bothwell's  lord  and  Roderick  bold 

Were  both,  he  said,  in  captive  hold." 

But  here  the  lay  made  sudden  stand ; 
The  harp  escaped  the  minstrel's  hand. 
Oft  had  he  stolen  a  glance  to  spy 
How  Roderick  brooked  his  minstrelsy. 


HISTORY   AND  TRAVEL.  397 


At  first,  the  chieftain  to  the  chime 

With  lifted  hand  kept  feeble  time  ; 

That  motion  ceased,  yet  feeling  strong 

Varied  his  look  as  changed  the  song. 

At  length,  no  more  his  deafened  ear 

The  minstrel  melody  can  hear  ; 

His  face  grows  sharp  ;  his  hands  are  clinched 

As  if  some  pang  his  heart-strings  wrenched ; 

Set  are  his  teeth ;  his  fading  eye 

Is  sternly  fixed  on  vacancy : 

Thus,  motionless  and  moanless,  drew 

His  parting-breath  stout  Roderick  Dhu. 

Old  Allan-bane  looked  on  aghast 

While  grim  and  still  his  spirit  passed; 

But,  when  he  saw  that  life  was  fled, 

He  poured  his  wailing  o'er  the  dead. 


HISTORY   AND    TRAVEL. 

EDWARD  GIBBON.  — 1737-1794.  The  stately  historian  of  "  The  Decline  and  Fall 
of  the  Roman  Empire.1' 

JOHN  LINGARD.  — 1771-1851.  The  Roman-Catholic  author  of  a  learned  and  val- 
uable "  History  of  England,"  thirteen  vols. 

HENRY  HALLAM. — 1778-1859.  Author  of  three  invaluable  historical  works, — 
"  View  of  Europe  during  the  Middle  Ages,"  "The  Constitutional  History  of  Eng- 
land," and  "An  Introduction  to  the  Literature  of  Europe." 

WILLIAM  NAPIER.  — 1785-1860.  "The  Peninsular  War,"  "The  Conquest  of 
Scinde,"  and  "  The  Life  of  Sir  Charles  Napier." 

WILLIAM  ROSCOE.  — 1753-1831.  "  The  Life  of  Lorenzo  de  Medici,"  and  "  The 
Life  and  Pontificate  of  Leo  X." 

Sir  JAMES  MC!NTOSH.  —  1765-1832.  Short  "  Life  of  Sir  Thomas  More,"  "  Dis- 
sertation on  Ethical  Philosophy,"  and  other  essays. 

THOMAS  McCRiE.  — 1772-1835.  "Life  of  John  Knox,"  and  "  Life  of  Andrew 
Melville." 

JAMES  MILL.  — 1773-1836.     "  History  of  British  India." 

DAVID  DALRYMPLE.  — 1726-1792.  "Annals  of  Scotland,  from  Malcolm  HI.  to 
the  Accession  of  the  Stuarts." 

GEORGE  CHALMERS.  —  1742-1825.  "  Caledonia  "  (antiquities  and  early  history 
of  Scotland),  "  Life  of  Queen  Mary,"  "  Life  of  Sir  David  Lyndsay." 

WILLIAM  MITFORD.  — 1744-1827.     "  History  of  Greece." 

WILLAM  COXE.  — 1747-1828.  "  History  of  Austria,"  "  Memoirs  of  Walpole  and 
Marlborough." 

JOHN  PINKERTON.  — 1758-1825.  "History  of  Scotland  before  the  Reign  of 
Malcolm  III.,  arid  under  the  Stuarts;"  "The  Scythians,  or  Goths." 

MALCOLM  LAING.  — 1762-1818.  "History  of  Scotland  from  1603  to  1707," 
"Dissertations  on  the  Gowrie  Plot  and  the  Murder  of  Darnley." 

SHARON  TURNER.  — 1768-1847.  "History  of  the  Anglo-Saxons,"  "History  of 
England  during  the  Middle  Ages." 

PATRICK  ERASER  TYTLER.  — 1791-1849.  "Universal  History,"  "  Historv  of 
Scotland  from  Alexander  III.,  to  1603,"  "  Lives  of  Scottish  Worthies,"  "  Life  of  Ra- 
leigh." 


398  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


Fames  Brnce,  Mungo  Park,  Hugh  Clapperton,  Richard  Lander,  John  L.  Burck- 
t,  and  G.  BeJzoni,  travels  in  Africa.     Edward  Clarke,  J.  Silk  Buckingham,  Sir 


James 
hart, 

John  Malcolm,  James  Morier,  Oursly,  Sir  R.  Ker  Porter,  James  B.  Frazer,"~Staunton, 
Barrow,  and  Ellis,  travels  in  Asia.  Forsyth,  Eustace,  Mathews,  Lady  Morgan, 
Inglis,  and  others,  in  Europe.  Parry,  Ross,  'Franklin,  and  Scoresby,  polar  regions. 


NOVELISTS. 

MARIA  EDGEWORTH.  — 1767-1849.     "Belinda,"  "Popular  Tales,"  "Tales  of 
Fashionable  Life,"  and  a  long  list  of  popular  works. 

HENRY  MACKENZIE.  — 1745-1831.    "The  Man  of  Feeling,"  and  "The  Man  of 
the  World." 

FRANCES  BURXEY.  — 1752-1840.   "Eveline,"  "  Cecilia,"  and  "Diary  and  Letters." 
JOHN  GALT.  — 1779-1839.     "  The  Ayrshire  Legatees,"  "  The  Annals  of  the  Par- 
ish," "  Sir  Andrew  Wylie,"  "  The  Entail,"  "  The  Last  of  the  Lairds,"  and  ''  Laurie 
Todd." 

FRANCES    TROLLOPE.     1790.     "  The  Domestic   Manners  of  the  Americans," 
"The  Abbess,"  "The  Vicar  of  Wrexhill,"  "The  Widow   Barnaby,"  and  "The 
Ward  of  Thorpe  Combe."     The  mother  of  Anthony  and  Thomas. 
JOHN  MOORE.  — 1729-1802.     "  Zeluco,"  "  Edward." 

CHARIOTTE  SMITH.— 1749-1806.    "The  Old  English  Manor-House,"  "  Emme- 
line." 

SOPHIA  LEE.  — 1750-1824,  and  her  sister  HARRIET  LEE.  — 1766-1851.     "The 
Canterbury  Tales  and  Dramas." 

ELIZABETH  INCHBALD. — 1753-1821.    "  A  Simple  Story,"  "  Nature  and  Art." 
WILLIAM  GODWIN.  — 1756-1836.     "  Caleb  William?,"  "  St.  Leon." 
ELIZABETH  HAMILTON.  — 1758-1816.    "Cottagers  of  Glenburnie." 
WILLIAM  BECKFORD.  — 1759-1844.    "  Vathek,  an  Arabian  Tale." 
ANNE  RADCLIFFE.  — 1764-1823.    "  Romance  of  the  Forest,"  "  Mysteries  of  Udol- 
pho,"  "  The  Italian." 

R.  PLUMEH  WARD.  — 1762-1846.    "  Tremaine,  or  the  Man  of  Refinement,"  "  De 
Vere,"  "  De  Clifibrd." 

AMELIA  OPIE.  — 1769-1853.     "Father  and  Daughter,"  "Tales  of  the  Heart," 
"  Temper." 

MATTHEW  GREGORY  LEWIS.  — 1773-1818.     "The  Monk,"  "Bravo  of  Venice," 
"  Tales  of  Wonder,"  "  The  Castle  Specter." 

JANE  AUSTEN.  — 1775-1817.    "  Pride  and  Prejudice,"  "  Mansfield  Park,"  "  Per- 
suasion." 

MARY  BRUNTON.  — 1778-1818.     "  Self-Control,"  "Discipline." 
JAMES  MORIER.  — 1780-1849.    "  Hajji  Baba,"  "  Zohrab,"  "  The  Mirza." 
THOMAS  HOPE.  —  Died  1831.     "  Anastasius,  or  Memoirs  of  a  Modem  Greek." 
MARY  FERRIER.  — 1782-1854.     "  Marriage,"  " The  Inheritance,"  "Destiny." 
LADY  MORGAN.  — 1786-1859.    "  The  Wild  Irish  Girl,"  "  O'Donnell." 
THEODORE  HOOK.  — 1788-1842.     "Gilbert  Gurnev,"  "Sayings  and  Doings," 
"Jack  Brag." 

MARY  MITFORD.  — 1789-1855.     "  Our  Village,"  "  Belford  Regis." 
COUNTESS  OF  BLESSINGTON.  — 1790-1849.     "The  Repealers,"  "Belle  of  a  Sea- 
son," "  Victims  of  Society,"  "  Idler  in  Italy,"  "  Idler  in  France." 
ANNA  PORTER.  — 1780-1832.    "Don  Sebastian." 

JANE  PORTER.  —  1776-1850.    "  Thaddeus  of  Warsaw,"  "  Scottish  Chiefs." 
THOMAS  C.  GRATTAN.  —  Born  1796.     "  Highways  and  Byways,"  "  Heiress  of 
Bruges,"  '•  History  of  the  Netherlands." 

MARY  SHELLEY. —  1797-1851.     "Frankenstein." 


WILLIAM  COWPER.  399 

WILLIAM    COWPER. 

1731-1800. 

Author  of  "  The  Task,"  "  Lines  on  the  Receipt  of  my  Mother's  Picture,"  and 
many  minor  poems,  "  John  Gilpin,"  &c. 

THE    TIME-PIECE. 

OH  for  a  lodge  in  some  vast  wilderness, 

Some  boundless  contiguity  of  shade, 

Where  rumor  of  oppression  and  deceit, 

Of  unsuccessful  or  successful  war, 

Might  never  reach  me  more !     My  ear  is  pained, 

My  soul  is  sick,  with  every  day's  report 

Of  wrong  and  outrage  with  which  earth  is  filled. 

There  is  no  flesh  in  man's  obdurate  heart ; 

It  does  not  feel  for  man  :  the  natural  bond 

Of  brotherhood  is  severed  as  the  flax 

That  falls  asunder  at  the  touch  of  fire. 

He  finds  his  fellow  guilty  of  a  skin 

Not  colored  like  his  own  ;  and,  having  power 

To  enforce  the  wrong  for  such  a  worthy  cause, 

Dooms  and  devotes  him  as  a  lawful  prey. 

Lands  intersected  by  a  narrow  frith 

Abhor  each  other.     Mountains  interposed 

Make  enemies  of  nations,  who  had  else, 

Like  kindred  drops,  been  kindled  into  one. 

Thus  man  devotes  his  brother,  and  destroys ; 

And  worse  than  all,  and  most  to  be  deplored 

As  human  nature's  broadest,  foulest  blot, 

Chains  him,  and  tasks  him,  and  exacts  his  sweat 

With  stripes  that  Mercy,  with  a  bleeding  heart, 

Weeps  when  she  sees  inflicted  on  a  beast. 

Then  what  is  man  ?     And  what  man.  seeing  this, 

And  having  human  feelings,  does  not  blush, 

And  hang  his  head,  to  think  himself  a  man  ? 

I  would  not  have  a  slave  to  till  rny  ground, 

To  carry  me,  to  fan  me  while  I  sleep, 

And  tremble  when  I  wake,  for  all  the  wealth 

That  sinews  bought  and  sold  have  ever  earned. 

No  :  dear  as  freedom  is,  and  in  my  heart's 

Just  estimation  prized  above  all  price, 

I  had  much  rather  be  myself  the  slave, 

And  wear  the  bonds,  than  fasten  them  on  him. 

We  have  no  slaves  at  home.     Then  why  abroad  ? 

And  they  themselves,  once  ferried  o'er  the  wave 

That  parts  us,  are  emancipate  and  loosed. 

Slaves  can  not  breathe  in  England  :  if  their  lungs 


400  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Receive  our  air,  that  moment  they  are  free ; 
They  touch  our  country,  and  their  shackles  fall. 
That's  noble,  and  bespeaks  a' nation  proud 
And  jealous  of  the  blessing.     Spread  it,  then, 
And  let  it  circulate  through  every  vein 
Of  all  your  empire,  that,  where  Britain's  power 
Is  felt,  mankind  may  feel  her  mercy  too. 

Sure  there  is  need  of  social  intercourse, 
Benevolence  and  peace,  and  mutual  aid, 
Between  the  nations,  in  a  world  that  seems 
To  toll  the  death-bell  of  its  own  decease, 
And,  by  the  voice  of  all  its  elements, 
To  preach  the  general  doom.     When  were  the  winds 
Let  slip  with  such  a  warrant  to  destroy  '.' 
When  did  the  waves  so  haughtily  o'erleap 
Their  ancient  barriers,  deluging  the  dry  ? 
Fires  from  beneath,  and  meteors  from  above, 
Portentous,  unexampled,  unexplained, 
Have  kindled  beacons  in  the  skies  ;  and  the  old 
And  crazy  Earth  has  had  her  shaking  fits 
More  frequent,  and  foiegone  her  usual  rest. 
Is  it  a  time  to  wrangle  when  the  props 
And  pillars  of  our  planet  seem  to  fail, 
And  Nature  with  a  dim  and  sickly  eye 
To  wait  the  close  of  all  ?     But  grant  her  end 
More  distant,  and  that  prophecy  demands 
A  longer  respite,  unaccomplished  yet  ; 
Still  they  are  frowning  signals,  and  bespeak 
Displeasure  in  his  breast  who  smites  the  earth 
Or  heals  it,  makes  it  languish  or  rejoice. 
And  'tis  but  seemly,  that,  where  all  deserve, 
And  stand  exposed  by  common  peccancy 
To  what  no  few  have  felt,  there  should  be  peace, 
And  brethren  in  calamity  should  love. 

Alas  for  Sicily  !  rude  fragments  now 
Lie  scattered  where  the  shapely  columns  stood. 
Her  palaces  are  dust.     In  all  her  streets, 
The  voice  of  singing  and  the  sprightly  chord 
Are  silent.     Revelry  and  dance  and  show 
Suffer  a  syncope  and  solemn  pause, 
While  God  performs  upon  the  trembling  stage 
Of  his  own  works  his  dreadful  part  alone. 
How  does  the  earth  receive  him  (with  what  signs 
Of  gratulation  and  delight),  her  king? 
Pours  she  not  all  her  choicest  fruits  abroad,  — 
Her  sweetest  flowers,  her  aromatic  gums,  — 
Disclosing  Paradise  where'er  he  treads  ? 
She  quakes  at  his  approach.     Her  hollow  womb, 
Conceiving  thunders,  through  a  thousand  deeps 
.And  fiery  caverns  roars  beneath  his  foot. 
The  hills  move  lightly,  and  the  mountains  smoke ; 
For  he  has  touched  them.     From  the  extreinest  point 


WILLIAM  COWPEE.  401 

Of  elevation,  down  into  the  abyss, 

His  wrath  is  busy,  and  his  frown  is  felt. 

The  rocks  fall  headlong,  and  the  valleys  rise ; 

The  rivers  die  into  offensive  pools, 

And,  charged  with  putrid  verdure,  breathe  a  gross 

And  mortal  nuisance  into  all  the  air. 

What  solid  was,  by  transformation  strange 

Grows  fluid  ;  and  the  fixed  and  rooted  earth, 

Tormented  into  billows,  heaves  and  swells, 

Or  with  vertiginous  and  hideous  whirl 

Sucks  down  its  prey  insatiable.     Immense 

The  tumult  and  the  overthrow,  the  pangs 

And  agonies  of  human  and  of  brute 

Multitudes,  fugitive  on  every  side, 

And  fugitive  in  vain.     The  sylvan  scene 

Migrates  uplifted ;  and,  with  all  its  soil 

Alighting  in  far-distant  fields,  finds  out 

A  new  possessor,  and  survives  the  change. 

Ocean  has  caught  the  frenzy,  and,  upwrought 

To  an  enormous  and  o'erbearing  Light,  — 

Not  by  a  mighty  wind,  but  by  that  Voice 

Which  winds  and  waves  obey,  —  invades  the  shore 

Resistless.     Never  such  a  sudden  flood, 

Upridged  so  high,  and  sent  on  such  a  charge. 

Possessed  an  inland  scene.     Where  now  the  throng 

That  pressed  the  beach,  and,  hasty  to  depart, 

Looked  to  the  sea  for  safety  ?     They  are  gone,  — 

Gone  with  the  refluent  wave  into  the  deep,  — 

A  prince  with  half  his  people  !     Ancient  towers, 

And  roofs  embattled  high,  the  gloomy  scenes 

Where  beauty  oft  and  lettered  worth  consume 

Life  in  the  unproductive  shades  of  death, 

Fall  prone  :  the  pale  inhabitants  come  forth, 

And,  happy  in  their  unforeseen  release 

From  all  the  rigors  of  restraint,  enjoy 

The  terrors  of  the  day  that  sets  them  free. 

Who  then,  that  has  thee,  would  not  hold  thee  fast, 

Freedom !  whom  they  that  lose  thee  so  regret, 

That  e'en  a  judgment,  making  way  for  thee, 

Seems  in  their  eyes  a  mercy  for  thy  sake  ? 

Such  evil  sin  hath  wrought ;  and  such  a  flame 

Kindled  in  heaven,  that  it  burns  down  to  earth, 

And,  in  the  furious  inquest  that  it  makes 

On  God's  behalf,  lays  waste  his  fairest  works. 

The  very  elements,  though  each  be  meant 

The  minister  of  man  to  serve  his  wants, 

Conspire  against  him.     With  his  breath  he  draws 

A  plague  into  his  blood,  and  can  not  use 

Lite's  necessary  means,  but  he  must  die. 

Storms  rise  to  o'erwhelm  him  ;  or,  if  stormy  winds 

Rise  not,  the  waters  of  the  deep  shall  rise, 

And,  needing  none  assistance  of  the  storm, 


402  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Shall  roll  themselves  ashore,  and  reach  him  there. 
The  earth  shall  shake  him  put  of  all  his  holds, 
Or  make  his  house  his  grave  ;  nor,  so  content, 
Shall  counterfeit  the  motions  of  the  flood, 
And  drown  him  in  her  dry  and  dusty  gulfs. 
What  then  ?     Were  they 'the  wicked  above  all, 
And  we  the  righteous,  whose  fast-anchored  isle 
Moved  not,  while  theirs  was  rocked,  like  a  light  skiff, 
The  sport  of  every  wave  ?     No  :  none  are  clear, 
And  none  than  we  more  guilty.     But  where  all 
Stand  chargeable  with  guilt,  and  to  the  shafts 
Of  wrath  obnoxious,  God  may  choose  his  mark ; 
May  punish,  if  he  please,  the  less,  to  warn 
The  more  malignant.     If  he  spared  not  them, 
Tremble  and  be  amazed  at  thine  escape, 
Far  guiltier  England,  lest  he  spare  not  thee ! 
Happy  the  man  who  sees  a  God  employed 
In  all  the  good  and  ill  that  checker  life, 
Resolving  all  events,  with  their  effects 
And  manifold  results,  into  the  will 
And  arbitration  wise  of  the  Supreme  ! 
Did  not  his  eye  rule  all  things,  and  intend 
The  least  of  our  concerns  (since  from  the  least 
The  greatest  oft  originate)  ;  could  chance 
Find  place  in  his  dominion,  or  dispose 
One  lawless  particle  to  thwart  his  plan,  — 
Then  God  might  be  surprised,  and  unforeseen 
Contingence  might  alarm  him,  and  disturb 
The  smooth  and  equal  course  of  his  affairs. 
This  truth,  Philosophy,  though  eagle-eyed 
In  Nature's  tendencies,  oft  overlooks ; 
And,  having  found  his  instrument,  forgets, 
Or  disregards,  or,  more  presumptuous  still, 
Denies,  the  power  that  wields  it.     God  proclaims 
His  hot  displeasure  against  foolish  men 
That  live  an  atheist  life ;  involves  the  heavens 
In  tempests ;  quits  his  grasp  upon  the  winds, 
And  gives  them  all  their  fury  ;  bids  a  plague 
Kindle  a  fiery  bile  upon  the  skin, 
And  putrefy  the  breath  of  blooming  Health. 
He  calls  for  Famine ;  and  the  meager  fiend 
Blows  mildew  from  beneath  his  shriveled  lips, 
And  taints  the  golden  ear.     He  springs  his  mines, 
And  desolates  a  nation  at  a  blast. 
Forth  steps  the  spruce  philosopher,  and  tells 
Of  homogeneal  and  discordant  springs 
And  principles ;  of  causes,  how  they  work, 
By  necessary  laws,  their  sure  effects 
Of  action  and  re-action  :  he  has  found 
The  source  of  the  disease  that  Nature  feels, 
And  bids  the  world  take  heart,  and  banish  fear. 
Thou  fool !  will  thy  discovery  of  the  cause 


WILLIAM  COWPER.  403 

Suspend  the  effect,  or  heal  it  ?     Has  not  God 

Still  wrought  by  means  since  first  he  made  the  world  ? 

And  did  he  not  of  old  employ  his  means 

To  drown  it  ?     What  is  his  creation  less 

Than  a  capacious  reservoir  of  means, 

Formed  for  his  use,  and  ready  at  his  will  ? 

Go  dress  thine  eyes  with  eye-salve  ;  ask  of  him, 

Or  ask  of  whomsoever  he  has  taught, 

And  learn,  though  late,  the  genuine  cause  of  all. 

England,  with  all  thy  faults,  I  love  thee  still, 
My  country !  and,  while  yet  a  nook  is  left 
Where  English  minds  and  manners  may  be  found, 
Shall  be  constrained  to  love  thee.     Though  thy  clime 
Be  fickle,  and  thy  year,  most  part,  deformed 
With  dripping  rains,  or  withered  by  a  frost, 
I  would  not  yet  exchange  thy  sullen  skies, 
And  fields  without  a  flower,  for  warmer  France 
With  all  her  vines ;  nor  for  Ausonia's  groves 
Of  golden  fruitage,  and  her  myrtle-bowers. 
To  shake  thy  senate,  and  from  hights  sublime 
Of  patriot  eloquence  to  flash  down  fire 
Upon  thy  foes,  was  never  meant  my  task  ; 
But  I  can  feel  thy  fortunes,  and  partake 
Thy  joys  and  sorrows  with  as  true  a  heart 
As  any'thunderer  there.     And  I  can  feel 
Thy  follies  too,  and  with  a  just  disdain 
Frown  at  effeminates,  whose  very  looks 
Reflect  dishonor  on  the  land  I  love. 
How,  in  the  name  of  soldiership  and  sense, 
Should  England  prosper,  when  such  things,  as  smooth. 
And  tender  as  a  girl,  all  essenced  o'er 
With  odors,  and  as  profligate  as  sweet, 
Who  sell  their  laurel  for  a  myrtle-wreath, 
And  love  when  they  should  fight,  —  when  such  as  these 
Presume  to  lay  their  hand  upon  the  ark 
Of  her  magnificent  and  awful  cause  ? 
Time  was  when  it  was  praise  and  boast  enough 
In  every  clime,  and  travel  where  we  might, 
That  we  were  born  her  children  ;  praise  enough 
To  fill  the  ambition  of  a  private  man, 
That  Chatham's  language  was  his  mother-tongue, 
And  Wolfe's  great  name  compatriot  with  his  own. 
Farewell,  those  honors !  and  farewell  with  them 
The  hope  of  such  hereafter!     They  have  fallen 
Each  in  his  field  of  glory,  —  one  in  arms, 
And  one  in  council ;  Wolfe  upon  the  lap    . 
Of  smiling  Victory  that  moment  won, 
And  Chatham  heart-sick  of  his  country's  shame. 
They  made  us  many  soldiers.     Chatham,  still 
Consulting  England's  happiness  at  home, 
Secured  it  by  an  unforgiving  frown 
If  any  wronged  her.     Wolfe,  where'er  he  fought, 


404  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Put  so  much  of  his  heart  into  his  act, 
That  his  example  had  a  magnet's  force  ; 
And  all  were  swift  to  follow  -whom  all  loved. 
Those  suns  are  set.     Oh  !  rise  some  other  such, 
Or  all  that  we  have  left  is  empty  talk 
Of  old  achievements,  and  despair  of  new. 

Now  hoist  the  sail,  and  let  the  streamers  float 
Upon  the  wanton  breezes.     Strew  the  deck 
With  lavender,  and  sprinkle  liquid  sweets, 
That  no  rude  savor  maritime  invade 
The  nose  of  nice  nobility  !     Breathe  soft, 
Ye  clarionets  !  and  softer  still,  ye  flutes  ! 
That  winds  and  waters,  lulled  by  magic  sounds, 
May  bear  .us  smoothly  to  the  Gallic  shore. 
True,  we  have  lost  an  empire ;  let  it  pass. 
True,  we  may  thank  the  perfidy  of  France 
That  picked  the  jewel  out  of  England's  crown 
With  all  the  cunning  of  an  envious  shrew  ; 
And  let  that  pass  ('twas  but  a  trick  of  state)  : 
A  brave  man  knows  no  malice,  but  at  once 
Forgets  in  peace  the  injuries  of  war, 
And  gives  his  direst  foe  a  friend's  embrace. 
And  shamed  as  we  have  been,  to  the  very  beard 
Braved  and  defied,  and  in  our  own  sea  proved 
Too  weak  for  those  decisive  blows  that  once 
Insured  us  mastery  there,  we  yet  retain 
Some  small  pre-eminence ;  we  justly  boast 
At  least  superior  jockeyship,  and  claim 
The  honors  of  the  turf  as  all  our  own. 
Go,  then,  well  worthy  of  the  praise  ye  seek, 
And  show  the  shame  ye  might  conceal  at  home 
In  foreign  eyes !     Be  grooms,  and  win  the  plate 
Where  once  your  nobler  fathers  won  a  crown  ! 
'Tis  generous  to  communicate  your  skill 
To  those  that  need  it.     Folly  is  soon  learned ; 
And,  under  such  preceptors,  who  can  fail? 

There  is  a  pleasure  in  poetic  pains 
Which  only  poets  know.     The  shifts  and  turns, 
The  expedients  and  inventions  multiform, 
To  which  the  mind  resorts  in  chase  of  terms 
(Though  apt,  yet  coy,  and  difficult  to  win) 
To  arrest  the  fleeting  images  that  fill 
The  mirror  of  the  mind,  and  hold  them  fast, 
And  force  them  sit  till  he  has  penciled  off 
A  faithful  likeness  of  the  forms  he  views ; 
Then  to  dispose  his  copies  with  such  art 
That  each  may  find  its  most  propitious  light, 
And  shine  by  situation  hardly  less 
Than  by  the  labor  and  the  skill  it  cost,  — 
Are  occupations  of  the  poet's  mind 
So  pleasing,  and  that  steal  away  the  thought 
With  such  address  from  themes  of  sad  import, 


WILLIAM  COWPER.  405 

That,  lost  hi  his  own  musings,  happy  man ! 

lie  feels  the  anxieties  of  life,  denied 

Their  wonted  entertainment,  all  retire. 

Such  joys  has  he  that  sings.     But,  ah  !  not  such, 

Or  seldom  such,  the  hearers  of  his  song. 

Fastidious,  or  else  listless,  or  perhaps 

Aware  of  nothing  arduous  in  a  task 

They  never  undertook,  they  little  note 

His  dangers  or  escapes,  and,  haply,  find 

Their  least  amusement  where  he  found  the  most. 

But  is  amusement  all  ?     Studious  of  song, 

And  yet  ambitious  not  to  sing  in  vain, 

I  would  not  trifle  merely,  though  the  world 

Be  loudest  in  their  praise  who  do  no  more. 

Yet  what  can  satire,  whether  grave  or  gay  ? 

It  may  correct  a  foible,  may  chastise 

The  freaks  of  fashion,  regulate  the  dress, 

Retrench  a  sword-blade,  or  displace  a  patch. 

But  where  are  its  sublimer  trophies  found  ? 

What  vice  has  it  subdued  ?  whose  heart  reclaimed 

By  rigor,  or  whom  laughed  into  reform  ? 

Alas !  Leviathan  is  not  so  tamed  : 

Laughed  at,  he  laughs  again,  and,  stricken  hard, 

Turns  to  the  stroke  his  adamantine  scales, 

That  fear  no  discipline  of  human  hands. 

The  pulpit,  therefore  (and  I  name  it  filled 
With  solemn  awe,  that  bids  me  well  beware 
With  what  intent  I  touch  that  holy  thing),  — 
The  pulpit  (when  the  satirist  has  at  last, 
Strutting  and  vaporing  in  an  empty  school, 
Spent  all  his  force,  and  made  no  proselyte),  — 
I  say,  the  pulpit  (in  the  sober  use 
Of  its  legitimate  peculiar  powers) 
Must  stand  acknowledged,  while  the  world  shall  stand, 
The  most  important  and  effectual  guard, 
Support,  and  ornament  of  Virtue's  cause. 
There  stands  the  messenger  of  truth,  there  stands 
The  legate  of  the  skies,,  his  theme  divine, 
His  office  sacred,  his  credentials  clear. 
By  him  the  violated  law  speaks  out 
Its  thunders ;  and  by  him,  in  strains  as  sweet 
As  angels  use,  the  gospel  whispers  peace. 
He  stablishes  the  strong,  restores  the  weak, 
Reclaims  the  wanderer,  binds  the  broken  heart, 
And,  armed  himself  in  panoply  complete 
Of  heavenly  temper,  furnishes  with  arms 
Bright  as  his  own,  and  trains,  by  every  rule 
Of  holy  discipline,  to  glorious  war, 
The  sacramental  host  of  God's  elect. 
Are  all  such  teachers  ?     Would  to  Heaven  all  were  ! 
But,  hark  !  the  doctor's  voice  !     Fast  wedged  between 
Two  empirics  he  stands,  and  with  swoln  cheeks 


406  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Inspires  the  news,  his  trumpet.     Keener  far 

Than  all  invective  is  his  bold  harangue 

While  through  that  public  organ  of  report 

He  hails  the  clergy,  and,  defying  shame, 

Announces  to  the  world  his  own  and  theirs. 

He  teaches  those  to  read  whom  schools  dismissed, 

And  colleges  untaught ;  sells  accent,  tone, 

And  emphasis  in  score ;  and  gives  to  prayer 

The  adagio  and  andante  it  demands. 

He  grinds  divinity  of  other  days 

Down  into  modern  use,  transforms  old  print 

To  zigzag  manuscript,  and  cheats  the  eyes 

Of  gallery  critics  by  a  thousand  arts. 

Are  there  who  purchase  of  the  doctor's  ware  ? 

Oh,  name  it  not  in  Gath  !  it  can  not  be 

That  grave  and  learned  clerks  should  need  such  aid. 

He  doubtless  is  in  sport,  and  does  but  droll, 

Assuming  thus  a  rank  unknown  before,  — 

Grand  caterer  and  dry-nurse  of  the  Church ! 

I  venerate  the  man  whose  heart  is  warm, 
Whose  hands  are  pure,  whose  doctrine  and  whose  life, 
Co-incident,  exhibit  lucid  proof 
That  he  is  honest  in  the  sacred  cause : 
To  such  I  render  more  than  mere  respect, 
Whose  actions  say  that  they  respect  themselves. 
But  loose  in  morals,  and  in  manners  vain  ; 
In  conversation  frivolous  ;  in  dress 
Extreme,  at  once  rapacious  and  profuse; 
Frequent  in  park  with  lady  at  his  side, 
Ambling,  and  prattling  scandal  as  he  goes  ; 
But  rare  at  home,  and  never  at  his  books, 
Or  with  his  pen,  save  when  he  scrawls  a  card ; 
Constant  at  routs  ;  familiar  with  a  round 
Of  ladyships ;   a  stranger  to  the  poor ; 
Ambitious  of  preferment  for  its  gold, 
And  well  prepared  by  ignorance  and  sloth, 
By  infidelity,  and  love  of  world, 
To  make  God's  work  a  sinecure. ;  a  slave 
To  his  own  pleasures,  and  his  patrons'  pride,  — 
From  such  apostles,  O  ye  mitered  heads  ! 
Preserve  the  Church,  and  lay  not  careless  hands 
On  skulls  that  can  not  teach,  and  will  not  learn. 

Would  I  describe  a  preacher  such  as  Paul, 
Were  he  on  earth,  would  hear,  approve,  and  own, 
Paul  should  himself  direct  me.     I  would  trace 
His  master-strokes,  and  draw  from  his  design. 
I  would  express  him  simple,  grave,  sincere ; 
In  doctrine  uncorrupt ;  in  language  plain, 
And  plain  in  manner ;  decent,  solemn,  chaste, 
And  natural  in  gesture  ;  much  impressed 
Himself,  as  conscious  of  his  awful  charge, 
And  anxious  mainly  that  the  flock  he  feeds 


EOBEET  BURNS.  407 


May  feel  it  too  ;  affectionate  in  look, 
And  tender  in  address,  as  well  becomes 
A  messenger  of  grace  to  guilty  men. 
Behold  the  picture  !     Is  it  like  ?  —  like  whom  ? 
The  things  that  mount  the  rostrum  with  a  skip, 
And  then  skip  down  again ;  pronounce  a  text ; 
Cry  "  Hem  !  "  and,  reading  what  they  never  wrote 
Just  fifteen  minutes,  huddle  up  their  work, 
And  with  a  well-bred  whisper  close  the  scene. 


ROBERT   BURNS. 

1759-1796. 

Chiefly  renowned  for  his  pathetic  and  spirit-stirring  songs.  Other  proofs  of  his 
high  rank  as  a  poet  are  "The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night,"  "Elegy  on  Captain  Mat- 
thew Henderson,"  "  The  Jolly  Beggars,"  "  Tarn  O'Shanter,"  and  others. 


THE    COTTER'S    SATURDAY  NIGHT. 

INSCRIBED  TO  ROBERT  AIKEN,  ESQ. 

MY  loved,  my  honored,  m»ich-respected  friend, 

No  mercenary  bard  his  homage  pays  : 
With  honest  pride  I  scorn  each  selfish  end  ; 

My  dearest  meed  a  friend's  esteem  and  praise. 
To  you  I  sing  in  simple  Scottish  lays 

The  lowly  train  in  Life's  sequestered  scene, 
The  native  feelings  strong,  the  guileless  ways,  — 

What  Aiken  in  a  cottage  would  have  been  : 
Ah !  though  his  worth  unknown,  far  happier  there,  I  ween. 

November  chill  blaws  loud  wi'  angry  sugh ; 

The  shortening  winter-day  is  near  a  close  ; 
The  miry  beasts  retreating  frae1  the  pie  ugh  ; 

The  blackening  trains  o'  craws  to  their  repose ; 
The  toil-worn  cotter  frae  his  labor  goes, 

(This  night  his  weekly  moil2  is  at  an  end,) 
Collects  his  spades,  his  mattocks,  and  his  hoes, 

Hoping  the  morn  in  ease  and  rest  to  spend ; 
And,  weary,  o'er  the  moor  his  course  does  hameward  bend. 

At  length  his  lonely  cot  appears  in  view, 

Beneath  the  shelter  of  an  aged  tree  : 
The  expectant  wee3  things,  toddlin'4,  stacher5  through 

To  meet  their  dad  wi'  flicterin'6  noise  and  glee. 

iFrom.      2  Labor.       s  Little.       *  Tottering  in  their  walk.      "Stagger.      6  Fluttering. 


408  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

His  wee  bit  ingle1  blinkin'2  bonnil y, 

His  clean  hearth-stane,  his  thrifty  wifie's  smile, 
The  lisping  infant  prattling'on  his  knee, 

Does  a'3  his  weary,  carking4  cares  beguile, 
An'  makes  him  quite  forget  his  labor  and  his  toil. 

Belyve5  the  elder  bairns  come  drappin'  in, 

At  service  out  amang  the  farmers  roun' : 
Some  ca'G  the  pleugh,  some  herd,  some  tentie7  rin 

A  cannie8  errand  to  a  neebor-town. 
Their  eldest  hope,  their  Jenny,  woman  grown, 

In  youthfu'  bloom,  love  sparkling  in  her  e'e, 
Comes  hame,  perhaps,  to  show  a  braw9-new  gown, 

Or  deposit  her  sair-won10  penny-fee11 
To  help  her  parents  dear  if  they  in  hardship  be. 

Wi'  joy  unfeigned  brothers  and  sisters  meet, 

An'  each  for  other's  weelfare  kindly  spiers  :12 
The  social  hours,  swift-winged,  unnoticed  fleet; 

Each  tells  the  uncos13  that  he  sees  or  hears. 
The  parents,  partial,  eye  their  hopeful  years ; 

Anticipation  forward  points  the  view : 
The  mother,  wi'  her  needle  an'  her  shears, 

Gars"  auld  claes  look  amaist  as  weel's  the  new ; 
The  father  mixes  a'  wi'  admonition  due. 

Their  master's  and  their  mistress's  command 

The  younkers  a'  are  warned  to  obey ; 
An'  mind  their  labors  wi'  an  eydent15  hand  ; 

An'  ne'er,  though  out  o'  sight,  to  jauk  or  play : 
"  An',  oh !  be  sure  to  fear  the  Lord  alway. 

An'  mind  your  duty  duly,  morn  an'  night. 
Lest  in  temptation's  path  ye  gang  astray, 

Implore  His  counsel  and  assisting  might : 
They  never  sought  in  vain  that  sought  the  Lord  aright." 

But,  hark !  a  rap  comes  gently  to  the  door  : 

Jenny,  wha  kens  the  meaning  o'  the  same, 
Tells  how  a  neebor-lad  cam'  o'er  the  moor 

To  do  some  errands,  and  convoy  her  hame. 
The  wily  mother  sees  the  conscious  flame 

Sparkle  in  Jenny's  e'e,  and  flush  her  cheek ; 
With  heart-struck  anxious  care  inquires  his  name ; 

While  Jenny  hafflins16  is  afraid  to  speak  : 
Weel  pleased,  the  mother  hears  it's  nae  wild,  worthless  rake. 

Wi'  kindly  welcome,  Jenny  brings  him  ben  ;" 
A  strappan18  youth,  he  taks  the  mother's  eye  : 

Blythe  Jenny  sees  the  visit's  no  ill  ta'en; 

The  father  cracks19  of  horses,  pleughs,  and  kye.20 

1  Fire.       *  Shining  at  intervals.        s  All.        *  Consuming.         6  By  and  by.         6  Drive. 
7  Cautious.        8  Kindly  dexterous.        "  Fine,  handsome.        »  Sorely-won.         »  Wasri-s. 
"Asks.         "News.         "Makes.          is  Diligent,         10  Partly.          "  Into  the  parlor. 
**  Tall  and  handsome.  w  Converses.    «>  Kine,  cows 


KG  BERT   BURNS.  409 

The  youngster's  artless  heart  o'erflows  wi'  joy, 
But,  blate1  an'  laithfu',2  scarce  can  weel  uehave : 

The  mother,  wi'  a  woman's  wiles,  can  spy 

What  makes  the  youth  sae  basht'u'  an'  sae  grave ; 
Weel  pleased  to  think  her  bairn's  respected  like  the  lave.8 

O  happy  love,  where  love  like  this  is  found  ! 

O  heartfelt  raptures  !  bliss  beyond  compare  ! 
I've  paced  much  this  weary  mortal  round, 

And  sage  experience  bids  me  this  declare,  — 
"  If  Heaven  a  draught  of  heavenly  pleasure  spare, 

One  cordial  in  this  melancholy  vale, 
'Tis  when  a  youthful,  loving,  modest  pair 

In  other's  arms  breathe  out  the  tender  tale 
Beneath  the  milk-white  thorn  that  scents  the  evening  gale." 

Is  there  in  human  form  that  bears  a  heart, 

A  wretch,  a  villain,  lost  to  love  and  truth, 
That  can,  with  studied,  sly,  insnarfng  art, 

Betray  sweet  Jenny's  unsuspecting  youth  ? 
Curse  on  his  perjured  arts  !   dissembling  smooch  ! 

Are  honor,  virtue,  conscience,  all  exiled  ? 
Is  there  no  pity,  no  relenting  ruth,4 

Points  to  the  parents  fondling  o'er  their  child, 
Then  paints  the  ruined  maid,  and  their  distraction  wild  ? 

But  now  the  supper  crowns  their  simple  board,  — 

The  healsome  parritch,5  chief  o'  Sco;  ia's  food  : 
The  soupe6  their  only  hawkie7  does  afford, 

That  'yont8  the  hallan0  snugly  chows  her  cood. 
The  dame  brings  forth  in  complimental  mood, 

To  grace  the  lad,  her  weel-hained10  kebbuck,11  fell  ;12 
An'  aft  he's  pressed,  an'  aft  he  ca's  it  good  : 

The  frugal  wifie,  garrulous,  will  tell 
How  'twas  a  towmond13  auld14  sin15  lint  was  i'  the  bell.16 

The  cheerfu'  supper  done,  wi'  serious  face 

They  round  the  ingle  form  a  circle  wide. 
The  sire  turns  o'er  wi'  patriarchal  grace 

The  big  ha'  Bible,17  ance  his  father's  pride. 
His  bonnet  reverently  is  laid  aside, 

His  lyart13  haffets19  wearin'  thin  an'  bare : 
Those  strains  that  once  did  sweet  in  Zion  glide 

He  wales20  a  portion  with  judicious  care  ; 
And  "  Let  us  worship  God  "  he  says  wi'  solemn  air. 

1  Bashful.  2  Reluctant  s  The  rest,  the  others.  *  Mercy,  kind  feeling. 

5  Oatmeal-puddi  ig.  (;  Sauce,  milk.  7  A  pet  name  for  a  cow.  8  Beyond. 

9  A  partition-wall  in  a  cottage.  10  Carefully-preserved.  n  A  cheese. 

12  Biting  to  the  tisto.  13  Twelve-month.  14  Old.  l~>  Since.  1(i  Flax  was  in  blossom. 
17  The  great  Bible  kept  in  the  hall.  18  Gray.  1<J  The  temples,  the  sides  of  the  head. 
20  Chooses. 


410  ENGLISH  LITERATURE, 

They  chant  their  artless  notes  in  simple  guise  ; 

They  tune  their  hearts,  Jjy  far  the  noblest  aim  : 
Perhaps  Dundee's1  wild,  warbling  measures  rise ; 

Or  plaintive  Martyrs,1  worthy  of  the  name  ; 
Or  noble  Elgin1  beats  the  heavenward  flame, — 

The  sweetest  far  of  Scotia's  holy  lays  : 
Compared  with  these,  Italian  trills  are  tame  ; 

The  tickled  ear  no  heartfelt  raptures  raise; 

unison  hae  they  with  our  Creator's  praise. 

The  priest-like  father  reads  the  sacred  page,  — 

How  Abram  was  the  friend  of  God  on  high ; 
Or  Moses  bade  eternal  warfare  wage 

With  Amalek's  ungracious  progeny ; 
Or  how  the  royal  bard  did  groaning  lie 

Beneath  the  stroke  of  Heaven's  avenging  ire; 
Or  Job's  puhetic  plaint  and  wailing  cry ; 

Or  rapt  Isaiah's  wild,  seraphic  fire; 
Or  other  holy  seers  that  tune  the  sacred  lyre. 

Perhaps  the  Christian  volume  is  the  theme,  — 

How  guiltless  blood  for  guilty  man  was  shed; 
How  He  who  bore  in  heaven  the  second  name 

Had  not  on  earth  whereon  to  lay  his  head ; 
How  his  first  followers  and  servants  sped, 

The  precepts  sage  they  wrote  to  many  a  land ; 
How  he,  who,  lone  in  Patmos  banished, 

Saw  in  the  sun  a  mighty  angel  stand, 
And  heard  great  Babylon's  doom  pronounced  by  Heaven's  command. 

Then,  kneeling  down,  to  heaven's  Eternal  King 

The  saint,  the  father,  and  the  husband  prays  : 
Hope  "springs  exulting  on  triumphant  wing" 

That  thus  they  all  shall  meet  in  future  days, 
There  ever  bask  in  uncreated  rays, 

No  more  to  sigh,  or  shed  the  bitter  tear, 
Together  hymning  their  Creator's  praise 

In  such  society,  yet  still  more  dear, 
While  circling  Time  moves  round  in  an  eternal  sphere. 

Compared  with  this,  how  poor  Religion's  pride, 

In  all  the  pomp  of  method  and  of  art, 
"When  men  display  to  congregations  wide 

Devotion's  every  grace  except  the  heart  ! 
The  Power,  incensed,  the  pageant  will  desert, 

The  pompous  strain,  the  sacerdotal  stole ; 
But  haply,  in  some  cottage  far  apart, 

M;iy  hear,  well  pleased,  the  language  of  the  soul, 
And  in  his  book  of  life  the  inmates  poor  enroll. 

1  The  names  of  Scottish  psalm-tunes. 


KOBERT  BURNS.  411 


Then  homeward  all  take  off  their  several^way; 

The  youngling  cottagers  retire  to  rest ; 
The  parent-pair  their  secret  homage  pay, 

And  proffer  up  to  Heaven  the  warm  request, 
That  He  who  stills  the  raven's  clamorous  nest, 

And  decks  the  lily  fair  in  flowery  pride, 
Would,  in  the  way  his  wisdom  sees  the  best, 

For  them  and  for  their  little  ones  provide ; 
But  chiefly  in  their  hearts  with  grace  divine  preside. 

From  scenes  like  these  old  Scotia's  grandeur  springs, 

That  makes  her  loved  at  home,  revered  abroad. 
Princes  and  lords  are  but  the  breath  of  kings : 

"  An  honest  man's  the  noblest  work  of  God." 
And  certes,  in  fair  Virtue's  heavenly  road, 

The  cottage  leaves  the  palace  far  behind : 
What  is  a  lordling's  pomp  ?  —  a  cumbrous  load, 

Disguising  oft  the  wretch  of  human  kind, 
Studied  in  arts  of  hell,  in  wickedness  refined ! 

O  Scotia,  my  dear,  my  native  soil, 

For  whom  my  warmest  wish  to  Heaven  is  sent ! 
Long  may  thy  hardy  sons  of  rustic  toil 

Be  blessed  with  health  and  peace,  and  sweet  content ! 
And,  oh,  may  Heaven  their  simple  lives  prevent 

From  luxury's  contagion,  weak  and  vile  ! 
Then,  howe'er  crowns  and  coronets  be  rent, 

A  virtuous  populace  may  rise  the  while, 
And  stand,  a  wall  of  fire,  around  their  much-loved  isle. 

O  Thou  who  poured  the  patriotic  tide 

That  streamed  through  Wallace's  undaunted  heart, 
Who  dared  to  nobly  stem  tyrannic  pride, 

Or  nobly  die,  the  second  glorious  part ! 
(The  patriot's  God  peculiarly  thou  art, 

His  friend,  inspirer,  guardian,  and  reward :) 
Oh  !  never,  never,  Scotia's  realm  desert ; 

But  still  the  patriot  and  the  patriot-bard 
In  bright  succession  raise,  her  ornament  and  guard  ! 


TO   A   MOUNTAIN  DAISY, 

ON  TURNING  ONE   DOWN  WITH  THE   PLOW  IN  APRIL,  1786. 

WEE,  modest,  crimson-tipped  flower, 
Thou's  met  me  in  an  evil  hour; 
For  I  maun  crush  arnang  the  stoure 

Thy  slender  stem : 

To  spare  thee  now  is  past  my  power, 
'Thou  bonnie  gem." 


412  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 


Alas !  it's  no  thy  neebor  sweet, 
The  bonnie  lark,  companion  meet, 
Bending  thee  'mang  the  dewy  weet, 

Wi'  speckled  breast, 
When  upward  springing,  blythe,  to  greet 

The  purpling  east. 

Cauld  blew  the  bitter-biting  north 
Upon  thy  early,  humble  birth : 
Yet  cheerfully  thou  glinted  forth 

Amid  the  storm ; 
Scarce  reared  above  the  parent-earth 

Thy  tender  form. 

The  flaunting  flowers  our  gardens  yield, 
High  sheltering  woods  and  wa's  maun  shield  ; 
But  thou,  beneath  the  random  bield 

O'  clod  or  stane, 
Adorns  the  histie  stibble-field, 

Unseen,  alane. 

There,  in  thy  scanty  mantle  clad, 
Thy  snawie  bosom  sunward  spread, 
Thou  lifts  thy  unasuming  head 

In  humble  guise ; 
But  now  the  share  uptears  thy  bed, 

And  low  thou  lies  ! 

Such  is  the  fate  of  artless  maid, 
Sweet  floweret  of  the  rural  shade, 
By  love's  simplicity  betrayed, 

And  guileless  trust ; 
Till  she,  like  thee,  all  soiled,  is  laid 

Low  i'  the  dust. 

Such  is  the  fate  of  simple  bard 

On  Life's  rough  ocean  luckless  starred: 

Unskillful  he  to  note  the  card 

Of  prudent  lore, 
Till  billows  rage,  and  gales  blow  hard, 

And  whelm  him  o'er. 

Such  fate  to  suffering  worth  is  given, 
Who  long  wirh  wants  and  woes  has  striven, 
By  human  pride  or  cunning  driven 

To  misery's  brink ; 
Till,  wrenched  of  every  stay  but  Heaven, 

He,  ruined,  sink. 

E'en  thou  who  mourn'st  the  daisy's  fate, 
That  fate  is  thine, —  no  distant  date  : 
Stern  Ruin's  plowshare  drives,  elate, 

Full  on  thy  bloom, 
Till  crushed  beneath  the  furrow's  weight 

Shall  be  thy  doom ! 


DISTINGUISHED  POETS  AND  DRAMATISTS.  413 


TO   MART  IN   HEAVEN. 

THOU  lingering  star  with  lessening  ray, 

That  lov'st  to  greet  the  early  morn, 
Again  thou  usher'st  in  the  day 

"My  Mary  from  my  soul  was  torn. 
O  Mary,  dear  departed  shade  ! 

Where  is  thy  place  of  blissful  rest  ? 
Seest  thou  thy  lover  lowly  laid  ? 

Hear'st  thou  the  groans  that  rend  his  breast  ? 

That  sacred  hour  can  I  forget, 

Can  I  forget  the  hallowed  grove, 
Where  by  the  winding  Ayr  we  met 

To  live  one  day  of  parting  love? 
Eternity  can  not  efface 

Those  records  dear  of  transports  past : 
Thy  image  at  our  last  embrace  !  — 

Ah,  little  thought  we  'twas  our  last ! 

Ayr,  gurgling,  kissed  his  pebbled  shore, 

O'erhung  with  wild  woods,  thickening  green  ; 
The  fragrant  birch  and  hawthorn  hoar 

Twined  amorous  round  the  raptured  scene  ; 
The  flowers  sprang  wanton  to  be  prest ; 

The  birds  sang  love  on  every  spray ; 
Till  too,  too  soon,  the  glowing  west 

Proclaimed  the  speed  of  winged  day. 

Still  o'er  these  scenes  my  memory  wakes, 

And  fondly  broods  with  miser  care : 
Time  but  the  impression  deeper  makes, 

As  streams  their  channels  deeper  wear. 
My  Mary,  dear  departed  shade  ! 

Where  is  thy  place  of  blissful  rest? 
Seest  thou  thy  lover  lowly  laid  ? 

Hear'st  thou  the  groans  that  rend  his  breast  ? 


DISTINGUISHED  POETS  AND  DRAMATISTS. 

GEORGE  CKABBE.  — 1754-1832.  "  The  Library,"  ';  The  Village,"  "  The  News- 
paper," "  The  Parish  Register,"  "  The  Borough,""  "  Tales  of  the  Hall." 

THOMAS  MOORE.  — 1779-1852.  Celebrated  for  his  "Irish  Melodies,"  "Lallu 
Rookh,"  "The  Fudge  Family  in  Paris,"  and  "  The  Epicurean." 

SAMUEL  ROGERS.  — 1763-1855.  The  benevolent  London  banker  and  poet. 
"The  Pleasures  of  Memory,"  "  Columbus,"  "Human  Life,"  and  "Italy." 


414  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

JAMES  HOGG  (the  Ettrick  Shepherd). —  1770-1835.  "The  Queen's  Wake," 
"Mudoc  of  the  Moor,"  "  The  Pilgrims  of  the  Sun;"  other  poems,  and  several  novels. 

JAMES  MONTGOMERY.  — 1771-1854.  tv«  Greenland."  "The  Pelican  Island," 
"The  Wanderer  in  Switzerland,"  "The  West  Indies,"  "Prison  Amusements," 
"  The  World  before  the  Flood,"  and  other  poems. 

FELICIA  HEMANS.  — 1793-1835.  "The  Forest  Sanctuary,"  "The  Voice  of 
Spring,"  "The  Graves  of  a  Household,"  "The  Palm-Tree,"  "The  Sunbeam," 
and  many  popular  pieces;  "  The  Vespers  of  Palermo,"  a  tragedy. 

PERCY  BVSSHE  SHELLEY.— 1792-1822.  "Queen  Mab,"  "  Alastor,"  "The 
Revolt  of  Islam,"  "Prometheus  Unbound,"  "The  Cenci,"  "The  Cloud,"  "The 
Skylark,"  and  "  The  Sensitive  Plant,"  are  full  of  beauty  of  thought  and  ex- 
pression. 

JOHN  KEATS.  —  1795  -1820.  "  Endymion,"  "  Hyperion,"  "  Lamia,"  "  Isabella," 
and  "  The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes."  A  young  poet  of  high  promise. 

HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE.  —  1785-1806.    A  volume  of  poems. 

LEIGH  HUNT.  — 1784-1859.  Genial  and  graceful  poet  and  critic.  "A  Story  of 
Rimini,"  "  The  Palfrey,"  "A  Legend  of  Florence;"  essays,  sketches,  and  memo'irs. 

REGINALD  HEBER.  — 1783-1826.  "Palestine;"  "Europe,  or  Lines  ou  the 
Present  War;"  hymn,  "  From  Greenland's  Icy  Mountains." 

ROBERT  TANNAHILL.  — 1774-1810.    Some  Scottish  songs. 

HANNAH  MOKE.  — 1745-1833.  "The  Inflexible  Captive,"  "Percy,"  and 
"The  Fatal  Falsehood,"  tragedies  ;  "  Ccelebs  in  Search  of  a  Wife;"  and  many 
other  popular  tales  and  prose  works. 

RICHARD  BRINSLEY  SHERIDAN.  —  1751-1816.  Dramatist,  orator,  and  statesman. 
"The  School  for  Scandal;"  "The  Crific,"  a  farce;  "  Speech  in  Trial  of  Warren 
Hastings." 

JOANNA  BAILLIE.  — 1762-1851.  Several  volumes  of  plays,  minor  poems,  and 
songs,  among  which  are  "  De  Montfort  "  and  ''  Count  Basil." ' 

MICHAEL  BRUCE.  —  1746-1767.    "Lochleven,"  "An  Elegy  written  in  Spring." 

Sir  WILLIAM  JONES.  — 1746  -1794.    "  Song  of  Hafiz,"  "  Hindoo  Wife." 

JOHN   LOGAN.  — 1748-1788.      "  The    Cuckoo,"   "The   Country    in    Autumn," 

"  Riinnymede." 

ROBERT  FERGUSON.  — 1751-1774.     "  Guid  Braid  Claith,"  "To  the  Tron  Kirk 

Bell." 

WILLIAM  GIFFORD.  — 1756-1826.     "The  Ba3viad,"  "The  Moeviad;"  editor  of 

"  The  Quarterly." 

WILLIAM    SOTHEBY.  — 1757-1833.     "Orestes,"   "Saul,"   "Italy;"  translations 

from  Wieland,  Virgil,  Homer. 

WILLIAM  L.  BO\VLES.  —  1762-1850.  "Sonnets,"  "Sorrows  of  Switzerland," 
"Missionary  of  the  Andes." 

JAMES  GRAHAME.  —  1765  -1811.     "  The  Sabbath :  "  "  Mary,  Queen  of  Scots." 

ROBERT  BLOOMFIELD.  —  1766-1823.  "The  Farmer's  Boy,"  "  Rural  Tales," 
"  Mayday  with  the  Muses." 

J.  HOOKHAM  FRERE.  — 1769-1846.  "Most  Interesting  Particulars  relating  to 
King  Arthur,  by  the  Brothers  Whistlecraft." 

Hon.  WILLIAM  R.  SPENCER.  — 1770-1834.  "Beth  Gelert,"  and  minor  poems; 
translator  of  "  Leuore." 

MARY  TIGHE.  —  1773-1810.    "  Psyche,  in  six  cantos." 

JOHN  LEYDEN. — 1775-1811.  "Scenes  of  Infancy,"  "  The  Mermaid,"  "  Ode  to 
a  Gold  Chain." 

JAMES  and  HORACE  SMITH.  —  1775-1839.    "Rejected  Addresses." 

GEORGE  CROLY.  —  1780-1860.  "Paris  in  1815,"  "Angel  of  the  World," 
"  Catiline,"  "  Salathiel." 

ALLAN  CUNNINGHAM.  — 1784-1842.     "  Scottish  Songs,"  "Sir  Marmaduke  Max- 

.11   "    "  Thn   MoJH    nf    riir.jv,   "    "•   I  \Fa  nf   WML-Ia  " 


EDMUND  BUKKE.  415 

WILLIAM  TENS  AST.  — 1785-1848.    "Anster  Fair,"  "  Thane  of  Fife,"  "  Dinging 
Down  of  the  Cathedral." 

EBEXEZEU  ELLIOTT.  — 1781-1749.    "  Corn-law  Rhymes." 

RICHARD   BARHAM. — 1788-1845.    "Ingoldsby  Legends,"  "My  Cousin  Nicho- 
las." 

JOHN  EEBLE.  — 1790.    "  The  Christian  Year." 

CHARLES  WOLFE.  — 1791-1823.     "  Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore,"  "  Jugurtha  in. 
Prison." 
"ROBERT  POLLOK.  — 1799-1827.    "  The  Course  of  Time." 

RICHARD  CUMBERLAND.  — 1732-1811.     "The   West-Indian,"  "The  Wheel  of 
Fortune." 

GEORGE    COLMAN.  — 1733 -1794.      "The    Jealous    Wife,"    "The    Clandestine 
Marriage." 

THOMAS    HOLCROFT.  — 1745-1809.      "The    Road    to    Ruin,"   "The    Deserted 
Daughter." 

GEORGE    COLMAN   the  Younger.  — 1762-1836.    "John  Bull,"  " Heir-at-Law," 
"Poor  Gentleman,"  "Newcastle  Apothecary,"  "Lodgings  for  Single  Gentlemen." 

CHARLES  R.  MATUKIN.  —  Died  in  1824.    "  Bertram,"  a  tragedy;  "  Women." 


EDMUND    BURKE. 

173D-1797. 

One  of  the  first  of  English  orators  and  statesmen,  author  of  the  celebrated  "  Es- 
say on  the  Sublime  and  Beautiful,"  "Reflections  on  the  Revolution  in  France," 
and  other  essays  and  orations. 

CHARACTER    OF  J UN I US. 

WHERE,  Mr.  Speaker,  shall  we  look  for  the  origin  of  this  rel- 
axation of  the  laws  and  of  all  government  ?  How  comes  this 
Junius  to  have  broken  through,  the  cobwebs  of  the  law,  and  to 
range  uncontrolled,  unpunished,  through  the  land  ?  The  myrmi- 
dons of  the  court  have  been  long,  and  are  still,  pursuing  him  in 
vain.  They  will  not  spend  their  time  upon  me  or  you:  no!  they 
disdain  such  vermin  when  the  mighty  boar  of  the  forest,  that  has 
broken  through  all  their  toils,  is  before  them.  But  what  will  all 
their  efforts  avail  ?  No  sooner  has  he  wounded  one  than  he  lays 
down  another  dead  at  his  feet.  For  my  part,  when  I  saw  his 
attack  upon  the  king,  I  own  my  blood  ran  cold.  I  thought  he 
had  ventured  too  far,  and  that  there  was  an  end  of  his  triumphs. 
Not  that  he  had  not  asserted  many  truths :  yes,  sir,  there  are  in 
that  composition  many  bold  truths  by  which  a  wise  prince  might 
profit.  But,  wMl*  I  expected  from  this  daring  flight  his  final  ruin 
and  fall,  behold  him  rising  still  higher,  and  coming  down  souse 
upon  both  Houses  of  Parliament !  Yes,  he  did  make  you  his 


41G  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

quarry,  rind  you  still  bleed  from  th;-  wound.3  of  his  talons.  You 
crouched,  and  still  crr.ich,  beneath  his  rage.  Nor  has  he  dreaded 
the  terror  of  your  brow,  sir:  he  has  attacked  even  you,  —  he  has; 
and  I  believe  you  have  no  reason  to  triumph  in  the  encounter. 
In  short,  after  carrying  away  our  royal  eagle  in  his  pounces,  and 
dashing  him  against  a  rock,  he  has  laid  you  prostrate.  Kings, 
Lords,  and  Commons  are  but  the  sport  of  his  fury.  Were  he  & 
member  of  this  house,  what  might  not  be  expected  from  his 
knowledge,  his  firmness,  and  integrity !  He  would  be  easily 
known  by  his  contempt  of  all  danger,  by  his  penetration,  by  his 
vigor.  Nothing  would  escape  his  vigilance  and  activity :  bad 
ministers  could  conceal  nothing  from  his  sagacity;  nor  could 
promises  or  threats  induce  him  to  conceal  any  thing  from  the 
public. 

PERORATION  IN   THE  IMPEACHMENT  OF   WARREN  HASTINGS. 

MY  lords,  we  have  now  laid  before  you  the  whole  conduct  of 
Warren  Hastings,  —  foul,' wicked,  nefarious,  and  cruel  as  it  has 
been;  and  we  ask,  What  is  it  that  we  want  here  to  a  great  act 
of  national  justice?  Do  we  want  a  cause,  my  lords?  You  have 
the  cause  of  oppressed  princes,  of  undone  women  of  the  first  rank, 
of  desolated  provinces,  and  of  wasted  kingdoms. 

Do  you  want  a  criminal,  my  lords?  When  was  there  so  much 
iniquity  ever  laid  to  the  charge  of  any  one  ?  No,  my  lords  :  you 
must  not  look  to  punish  any  other  such  delinquent  from  India. 
Warren  Hastings  has  not  left  substance  enough  in  India  to  nour- 
ish such  another  delinquent. 

My  lords,  is  it  a  prosecutor  you  want?  You  have  before  you 
the  Commons  of  Great  Britain  as  prosecutors ;  and  I  believe,  my 
lords,  that  the  sun,  in  his  beneficent  progress  round  the  world, 
does  not  behold  a  more  glorious  sight  than  that  of  men,  separated 
from  a  remote  people  by  the  material  bonds  and  barriers  of  Nature, 
united  by  the  bond  of  a  social  and  moral  community,  —  all  the 
Commons  of  England  resenting  as  their  own  the  indignities  and 
cruelties  that  are  offered  to  all  the  people  of  India, 

Do  you  want  a  tribunal  ?  My  lords,  no  example  of  antiquity, 
nothing  in  the  modern  world,  nothing  in  the  range  of  human  im- 
agination, can  supply  us  with  a  tribunal  like  this.  My  lords,  here 
we  see  virtually,  in  the  mind's  eye,  that  sacred  majesty  of  the 
crown,  under  whose  authority  you  sit,  and  whose  power  you  exer- 
cise. We  have  here  the  heir-apparent  to  the  crown.  We  have 
here  all  the  branches  of  the  royal  family  in  a  situation  between 
majesty  and  subjection.  My  lords,  we  have  a  great  hereditary 
peerage  here,  —  those  who  have  their  own  honor,  the  honor  of  their 
ancestors  and  of  their  posterity,  to  guard.  We  have  here  a  new 


EDMUXD    BURKE.  417 

nobility,  who  have  risen,  and  exalted  themselves  by  various  mer- 
its, by  great  military  services,  which  have  extended  the  fame  of 
this  country  from  the  rising  to  the  setting  sun.  We  have  persons 
exalted  from  the  practice  of  the  law,  from  the  place  in  which  they 
administered  high  though  subordinate  justice,  to  a  seat  here,  to 
enlighten  with  their  knowledge  and  to  strengthen  with  their 
votes  those  principles  which  have  distinguished  the  courts  in 
which  they  have  presided.  My  lords,  you  have  here,  also,  the 
lights  of  our  religion  :  you  have  the  bishops  of  England.  You  have 
the  representatives  of  that  religion,  which  says  that  their  God  is 
love,  that  the  very  vital  spirit  of  their  institution  is  charity. 

My  lords,  these  are  the  securities  which  we  have  in  all  the  con- 
stituent parts  of  this  house.  We  know  them,  we  reckon,  we  rest 
upon  them,  and  commit  safely  the  interests  of  India  and  of  hu- 
manity into  your  hands.  Therefore  it  is  with  confidence,  that, 
ordered  by  the  Commons, 

I  impeach  Warren  Hastings,  Esq.,  of  high  crimes  and  misde- 
meanors. 

I  impeach  him  in  the  name  of  the  Commons  of  Great  Britain 
in  Parliament  assembled,  whose  parliamentary  trust  he  has 
betrayed. 

I  impeach  him  in  the  name  of  all  the  Commons  of  Great  Brit- 
ain, whose  national  character  he  has  dishonored. 

I  impeach  him  in  the  name  of  the  people  of  India,  whose  laws, 
rights,  and  liberties  he  has  subverted ;  whose  properties  he  has 
destroyed ;  whose  country  he  has  laid  waste  and  desolate. 

I  impeach  him  in  the  name  and  by  virtue  of  those  eternal 
laws  of  justice  which  he  has  violated. 

I  impeach  him  in  the  name  of  human  nature  itself,  which  he 
has  cruelly  outraged,  injured,  and  oppressed  in  both  sexes,  in 
every  age,  rank,  situation,  and  condition  of  life. 


TERROR   A    SOURCE    OF    THE  SUBLIME. 

No  passion  so  effectually  robs  the  mind  of  all  its  powers  of 
acting  and  reasoning  as  fear;  for,  fear  being  an  apprehension  of 
pain  or  death,  it  operates  in  a  manner  that  resembles  actual  pain. 
Whatever,  therefore,  is  terrible  with  regard  to  sight,  is  sublime 
too,  whether  this  cause  of  terror  be  endued  with  greatness  of 
dimensions,  or  not;  for  it  is  impossible  to  look  on  anything  as 
trifling  or  contemptible  that  may  be  dangerous.  There  are  many 
animals,  who,  though  far  from  being  large,  are  yet  capable  of  rais- 
ing ideas  of  the  sublime,  because  they  are  considered  as  objects 
of  terror;  as  serpents,  and  poisonous  animals  of  almost  all  kinds. 
Even  to  things  of  great  dimensions,  if  we  annex  any  adventitious 
27 


418  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

idea  of  terror,  they  become,  without  comparison,  greater.  An  even 
plain  of  a  vast  extent  of  land  is  certainly  no  mean  idea  :  the  pros- 
pect of  such  a  plain  may  be  as  extensive  as  a  prospect  of  the 
ocean;  but  can  it  ever  till  the  mind  with  any  thing  so  great  as 
the  ocean  itself?  This  is  owing  to  several  causes  :  but  it  is  owing 
to  none  more  than  to  this,  —  that  the  ocean  is  an  object  of  no 
small  terror.  

SYMPATHY  A    SOURCE    OF    THE   SUBLIME. 

IT  is  by  the  passion  of  sympathy  that  we  enter  into  the  con- 
cerns of  others;  that  we  are  moved  as  they  are  moved,  and  are 
never  suffered  to  be  indifferent  spectators  of  almost  any  thing 
which  men  can  do  or  suffer.  For  sympathy  must  be  considered 
as  a  sort  of  substitution,  by  which  we  are  put  into  the  place  of 
another  man,  and  affected  in  a  good  measure  as  he  is  affected :  so 
that  this  passion  may  either  partake  of  the  nature  of  those  which 
regard  self-preservation,  and,  turning  upon  pain,  may  be  a  source 
of  the  sublime ;  or  it  may  turn  upon  ideas  of  pleasure,  and  then 
whatever  has  been  said  of  the  social  affections,  whether  they 
regard  society  in  general,  or  only  some  particular  modes  of  it,  may 
be  applicable  here. 

It  is  by  this  principle  chiefly  that  poetry,  painting,  and  other 
affecting  arts,  transfuse  their  passions  from  one  breast  to  another, 
and  are  often  capable  of  grafting  a  delight  on  wretchedness,  mis- 
ery, and  death  itself.  It  is  a  common  observation,  that  objects 
which  in  the  reality  would  shock,  are,  in  tragical  and  such  like 
representations,  the  source  of  a  very  high  species  of  pleasure. 
This,  taken  as  a  fact,  has  been  the  cause  of  much  reasoning.  This 
satisfaction  has  been  commonly  attributed,  first  to  the  comfort  we 
receive  in  considering  that  so  melancholy  a  story  is  no  more  than 
a  fiction,  and  next  to  the  contemplation  of  our  own  freedom  from 
the  evils  we  see  represented.  I  am  afraid  it  is  a  practice  much 
too  common  in  inquiries  of  this  nature  to  attribute  the  cause  of 
feelings  which  merely  arise  from  the  mechanical  structure  of  our 
bodies,  or  from  the  natural  frame  and  constitution  of  our  minds, 
to  certain  conclusions  of  the  reasoning  faculty  on  the  objects 
presented  to  us  ;  for  I  have  some  reason  to  apprehend  that  the 
influence  of  reason  in  producing  our  passions  is  nothing  near  so 
extensive  as  is  commonly  believed. 


UXCZRTMXTY  A    SOURCE    OF    THE    SUBLIME. 

A  LOW,  tromulous,  intermitting  sound  is  productive  of  the  sub- 
lime. It  is  worth  while  to  examine  this  a  little.  The  fact  itself 
must  be  determined  by  every  man's  own  experience  and  reflec- 


EDMUND  BURKE.  419 

tion.  I  have  always  observed  that  night  increases  our  terror 
more,  perhaps,  than  any  thing  else.  It  is  our  nature,  when  we  do 
not  know  what  may  happen  to  us,  to  fear  the  worst  that  can  hap- 
pen ;  and  hence  it  is  that  uncertainty  is  so  terrible,  that  we  often 
seek  to  be  rid  of  it  at  the  hazard  of  a  certain  mischief.  Now, 
some  low,  confused,  uncertain  sounds  leave  us  in  the  same  fearful 
anxiety  concerning  their  causes,  that  no  light,  or  an  uncertain 
light,  does  concerning  the  objects  that  surround  us  :  — 

"  A  faint  shadow  of  uncertain  light, 
Like  as  a  lamp  whose  life  doth  fade  away; 
Or  as  the  moon,  clothed  with  cloudy  night, 
Doth,  show  to  him  who  walks  in  fear  and  great  affright." 

But  light  now  appearing,  and  now  leaving  us,  and  so  off  and  on, 
is  even  more  terrible  than  total  darkness  ;  and  sorts  of  uncertain 
sounds  are,  when  the  necessary  dispositions  concur,  more  alarm- 
ing than  a  total  silence. 


OF    WORDS. 

NATURAL  objects  affect  us  by  the  laws  of  that  connection  which 
Providence  has  established  between  certain  motions  and  configu- 
rations of  bodies  and  certain  consequent  feelings  in  our  minds. 
Painting  affects  in  the  same  manner,  but  with  the  superadded 
pleasure  of  imitation.  Architecture  affects  by  the  laws  of  nature 
and  the  law  of  reason  ;  from  which  latter  result  the  rules  of  pro- 
portion, which  make  a  work  to  be  praised  or  censured,  in  the 
whole  or  in  some  part,  when  the  end  for  which  it  was  designed 
is  or  is  not  properly  answered.  But,  as  to  words,  they  seem  to 
me  to  affect  us  in  a  manner  very  different  from  that  in  which  we 
are  affected  by  natural  objects,  or  by  painting  or  architecture.  Yet 
words  have  as  considerable  a  share  in  exciting  ideas  of  beauty  and 
of  the  sublime  as  any  of  those,  and  sometimes  a  much  greater 
than  any  of  them  :  therefore  an  inquiry  into  the  manner  by 
which  the}'-  excite  such  emotions  is  far  from  being  unnecessary  in 
a  discourse  of  this  kind. 


THE  COMMON  EFFECT   OF  POETRY,   NOT  BY  RAISING  IDEAS 
OF   THINGS. 

THE  common  notion  of  the  power-  of  poetry  and  eloquence,  as 
well  as  that  of  words  in  ordinary  conversation,  is,  that  they  affect 
the  mind  by  raising  in  it  ideas  of  those  things  for  which  custom 
has  appointed  them  to  stand.  To  examine  the  truth  of  this  no- 
tion, it  may  bo  requisite  to  observe,  that  words  may  be  divided 
into  three  sorts.  The  first  are  such  as  represent  many  simple 


4JO  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

ideas,  unitc'l  Inj  nature  to  form  some  one  determinate  composi- 
tion ;  as  man,  horse,  tree,  castle,.,  &c.  Tliese  I  call  ayyrryute 
words.  The  second  are  those  that  stand  for  one  simple  idea  of 
such  compositions,  and  no  more;  as  red,  blue,  round,  square,  and 
the  like.  These  I  <  all  simple  abstract  words.  The  third  are 
those  which  are  formed  by  a  union,  an  arbitrary  union,  of  both 
the  others,  and  of  the  various  relations  between  them  in  greater 
or  lesser  degrees  of  complexity;  as  virtue,  honor,  persuasion,  ma- 
gistrate, and  the  like.  These  I  call  compound  ulxtrvrt  words. 
Words,  I  am  sensible,  are  capable  of  being  classed  into  more  curi- 
ous distinctions:  bur  these  seem  to  be  natural,  and  enough  for  our 
purpose;  and  they  are  disposed  in  that  order  in  which  they  are 
commonly  taught,  and  in  which  the  mind  gets  the  ideas  for  which 
they  are  substituted.  I  shall  begin  with  the  third  sort  of  words, 
—  compound  abstracts,  —  such  as  virtue,  honor,  persuasion,  docili- 
ty. Of  these  I  am  convinced,  that,  whatever  power  they  may 
have  on  the  passions,  they  do  not  derive  it  from  any  representa- 
tion raised  in  the  mind  of  the  things  for  which  they  stand.  As 
compositions,  they  are  not  real  essences,  and  hardly  cause,  I  think, 
any  real  ideas.  Nobody-,  I  believe,  immediately  on  hearing  the 
sounds  virtue,  liberty,  or  honor,  conceives  any  precise  notions  of 
the  particular  modes  of  action  and  thinking,  together  with  the 
mixed  and  simple  ideas,  and  the  several  relations  of  them,  for 
which  these  words  are  substituted :  neither  has  he  any  general 
idea  compounded  of  them  ;  for,  if  he  had,  then  some  of  those  par- 
ticular ones,  though  indistinct  perhaps,  and  confused,  might  come 
soon  to  be  perceived.  But  this.  I  take  it,  is  hardly  ever  the  case  : 
for  put  yourself  upon  analyzing  one  of  these  words,  and  you  must 
reduce  it  from  one  set  of  general  words  to  another,  and  then  into 
the  simple  abstracts  and  aggregates,  in  a  much  longer  series  than 
may  be  at  first  imagined,  before  any  real  idea  emerges  to  light, 
before  you  come  to  discover  any  thing  like  the  first  principles  of 
sue])  compositions;  and,  when  you  have  made  such  a  discovery  of 
the  original  ideas,  the  effect  of  the  composition  is  utterly  lost.  A 
train  of  thinking  of  this  sort  is  much  too  long  to  be  pursued  in 
the  ordinary  ways  of  conversation;  nor  is  it  at  all  necessary" that 
it  should.  Such  words  are,  in  reality,  but  mere  sounds ;  but  they 
>unds,  which,  being  used  on  particular  occasions,  wherein  we 
receive  some  good,  or  suffer  some  evil,  or  see  others  affected  with 
good  or  evil,  or  which  we  hear  applied  to  other  interesting  things 
or  events,  and  being  applied  in  such  a  variety  of  cases  that  we 
know  readily  by  habit  to  what  things  they  belong,  they  produce 
in  the  mind,  whenever  they  are  afterward  mentioned,  effects  sim- 
ilar to  those  of  their  occasions.  The  sounds  being  often  used 
without  reference  to  any  particular  occasion,  and  carrying  still 
their  lirst  impressions,  they  at  last  utterly  lose  their  connection 


EDMUXD   BURKE.  421 

with  the   particular  occasions  that   gave  rise  to  them ;  yet  the 

sound,   without    any   annexe ;1    notion,    continues  to    operate    as 
before. 


GENERAL    WORDS  BEFORE  IDEAS. 

MR.  LOCKE  has  somewhere  observed  with  his  usual  sagacity, 
that  most  general  words,  those  belonging  to  virtue  and  vice,  good 
and  evil,  especially,  are  taught  before  the  particular  modes  of  ac- 
tion to  which  they  belong  are  presented  to  the  mind,  and  with 
them  the  love  of  the  one,  and  the  abhorrence  of  the  other ;  for  the 
minds  of  children  are  so  ductile,  that  a  nurse,  or  any  person  about 
a  child,  by  seeming  pleased  or  displeased  with  any  thing,  or  even 
any  word,  may  give  the  dispositions  of  the  child  a  similar  turn. 
When,  afterward,  the  several  occurrences  in  life  come  to  be  ap- 
plied to  these  words,  and  that  which  is  pleasant  often  appears 
under  the  name  of  the  evil,  and  what  is  disagreeable  to  nature  is 
called  good  and  virtuous,  a  strange  confusion  of  ideas  arid  affec- 
tions arises  in  the  minds  of  many,  and  an  appearance  of  no  small 
contradiction  between  their  notions  and  their  actions.  There  are 
many  who  love  virtue,  and  who  detest  vice,  —  and  this  not  from 
hypocrisy  or  affectation,  —  who,  notwithstanding,  very  frequently 
act  ill  and  wickedly  in  particulars  without  the  least  remorse,  be- 
cause these  particular  occasions  never  come  into  view  when  the 
passions  on  the  side  of  virtue  were  so  warmly  affected  by  certain 
words  heated  originally  by  the  breath  of  others  :  and  for  this 
reason  it  is  hard  to  repeat  certain  sets  of  words,  though  owned 
by  themselves  unoperative,  without  being  in  some  degree  affected, 
especially  if  a  warm  and  affecting  tone  of  voice  accompanies 
them;  as,  suppose, 

"  Wise,  valiant,  generous,  good,  and  great." 

These  words,  by  having  no  application,  ought  to  be  inoperative; 
but,  when  words  commonly  sacred  to  great  occasions  are  used,  \V3 
are  affected  by  them  even  without  the  occasions.  When  words 
which  have  been  generally  GO  applied  are  put  together  without 
any  rational  view,  or  in  such  a  manner  that  they  do  not  rightly 
agree  with  each  other,  the  style  is  called  bombast :  and  it 
requires,  in  several  cases,  much  good  senso  and  experience  to  be 
guarded  against  the  force  of  such  language ;  for,  when  propriety 
is  neglected,  a  greater  number  of  these  affecting  words  may  bo 
taken  into  the. service,  and  a  greater  variety  may  bs  indulged  in 
combining  them. 


422  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


THE  EFFECTS    OF    WORDS. 

IF  words  have  all  their  possible  extent  of  power,  three  effects 
arise  in  the  mind  of  the  hearer.  The  first  is  the  sound;  the  sec- 
ond, the  picture,  or  representation,  of  the  thing  signified  by  the 
sound;  the  third  is  the  affection  of  the  soul  produced  by  one  or  by 
both  of  the  foregoing.  Compounded  abstract  words,  of  which  we 
have  been  speaking  (honor,  justice,  liberty,  and  the  like),  produce 
the  first  and  the  last  of  these  effects,  but  not  the  second.  Simple 
abstracts  are  used  to  signify  some  one  simple  idea,  without  much 
adverting  to  others  which  may  chance  to  attend  it;  as  blue,  given, 
hot,  cold,  and  the  like :  these  are  capable  of  affecting  all  three  of 
the  purposes  of  words  ;  as  the  aggregate  words,  man,  castle,  horse, 
&c.,  are  in  a  yet  higher  degree.  But  I  am  of  opinion  that  the 
most  general  effect,  even  of  these  words,  does  not  arise  from  their 
forming  pictures  of  the  several  things  they  would  represent  in  the 
imagination,  because,  on  a  very  diligent  examination  of  my  own 
mind,  and  getting  others  to  consider  theirs,  I  do  not  find  that 
once  in  twenty  times  any  such  picture  is  formed ;  and,  when  it  is, 
there  is  most  commonly  a  particular  effort  of  the  imagination  for 
that  purpose.  But  the  aggregate  words  operate,  as  I  said  of  the 
compound  abstracts,  not  by  presenting  any  image  to  the  mind, 
but  by  having,  from  use,  the  same  effect  on  being  mentioned  that 
their  original  has  when  it  is  seen.  Suppose  we  were  to  read  a 
passage  to  this  effect :  "  The  River  Danube  rises  in  a  moist  and 
mountainous  soil  in  the  heart  of  Germany,  where,  winding  to  and 
fro,  it  waters  several  principalities,  until,  turning  into  Austria, 
and  leaving  the  walls  of  Vienna,  it  passes  into  Hungary:  there, 
with  a  vast  flood,  augmented  by  the  Saave  and  the  Drave,  it  quits 
Christendom;  and,  rolling  through  the  barbarous  countries  which 
border  on  Tartary,  it  enters  by  many  mouths  into  the  Black  Sea." 
In  this  description,  man^  things  are  mentioned ;  as  mountains, 
rivers,  cities,  the  sea,  &c.  But  let  anybody  examine  himself, 
and  see  whether  he  has  had  impressed  on  his  imagination  any 
pictures  of  a  river,  mountain,  watery  soil,  Germany,  &c.  Indeed, 
it  is  impossible,  in  the  rapidity  and  quick  succession  of  words  in 
conversation,  to  have  ideas  both  of  the  sound  of  the  word  and  of 
the  thing  represented:  besides,  some  words  expressing  real  essences 
are  so  mixed  with  others  of  a  general  and  nominal  import,  that  it 
is  impracticable  to  jump  from  sense  to  thought,  from  particulars 
to  generals,  from  things  to  words,  in  such  a  manner  as  to  answer 
the  purposes  of  life ;  nor  is  it  necessary  that  we  should. 


JUSTUS.  423 


J  UN  I  US. 

Author  of  a  series  of  Letters,  commencing  Jan.  21,  1769.  No  compositions  bet- 
ter illustrate  the  flexibility  and  power  of  the  English  language.  For  fierce  invective 
and  terrible  sarcasm  in  elegant  dress  and  appropriate  ornament,  "  The  Letters  of 
Junius  "  are  unsurpassed.  They  have  been  attributed,  among  others,  to  Burke  and 
Sir  Philip  Francis;  but  the  weight  of  evidence  is  in  favor  of  the  latter. 


FROM  THE  DEDICATION  TO   THE  ENGLISH  NATION. 

I  DEDICATE  to  you  a  collection  of  Letters  written  by  one  of 
yourselves  for  the  common  benefit  of  us  all.  They  would  never 
have  grown  to  this  size  without  your  continued  encouragement 
and  applause.  To  me  they  originally  owe  nothing  but  a  healthy, 
sanguine  constitution.  Under  your  care,  they  have  thriven :  to 
you  they  are  indebted  for  whatever  strength  or  beauty  they  pos- 
sess. When  kings  and  ministers  are  forgotten,  when  the  force 
and  direction  of  personal  satire  is  no  longer  understood,  and  when 
measures  are  only  felt  in  their  remotest  consequences,  this  book 
will,  I  believe,  be  found  to  contain  principles  worth}7"  to  be  trans- 
mitted to  posterity.  When  you  leave  the  unimpaired,  hereditary^ 
freehold  to  your  children,  you  do  but  half  your  duty.  Both  liberty 
and  property  are  precarious  unless  the  possessors  have  sense  and 
spirit  enough  to  defend  them.  This  is  not  the  language  of  vanity. 
If  I  am  a  vain  man,  my  gratification  lies  within  a  narrow  circle. 
I  am  the  sole  depositary  of  my  own  secret;  and  it  shall  perish  with 
me. 

I  can  not  doubt  that  you  will  unanimously  assert  the  freedom  of 
election,  and  vindicate  your  exclusive  right  to  choose  your  repre- 
sentatives ;  but  other  questions  have  been  started  on  which  your 
determination  should  be  equally  clear  and  unanimous.  Let  it  be 
impressed  upon  your  minds,  let  it  be  instilled  into  your  children, 
that  the  liberty  of  the  press  is  the  palladium  of  all  the  civil,  polit- 
ical, and  religious  rights  of  an  Englishman  ;  and  that  the  right  of 
juries  to  return  a  general  verdict  in  all  cases  whatsoever  is  an 
essential  part  of  our  constitution,  not  to  be  controlled  or  limited  by 
the  judges,  nor  in  any  shape  questionable  by  the  legislature.  The 
power  of  King,  Lords,  and  Commons,  is  not  an  arbitrary  power. 
They  are  the  trustees,  not  the  owners,  of  the  estate.  The  fee- 
simple  is  in  us.  They  can  not  alienate ;  they  can  not  waste.  When 
we  say  that  tho  legislature  is  supreme,  we  mean  that  it  is  the 
highest  power  known  to  the  constitution;  that  it  is  the  highest 
in  comparison  with  the  other  subordinate  powers  established  by 
the  laws.  In  this  sense,  the  word  "  supreme  "  is  relative,  not  abso- 


424  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

lute.  The  power  of  the  legislature  is  limited,  not  only  by  the 
general  rules  of  natural  justice  and  the  welfare  of  the  community, 
but  by  the  forms  and  principles  of  our  particular  constitution.  If 
this  doctrine  be  not  true,  we  must  admit  that  King,  Lords,  and 
Commons  have  no  rule  to  direct  their  resolutions  but  merely  their 
own  will  and  pleasure.  They  might  unite  the  legislative  and  exec- 
utive power  in  the  same  hands,  and  dissolve  the  constitution  by  an 
act  of  Parliament.  But  I  am  persuaded  you  will  not  leave  it  to  the 
choice  of  seven  hundred  persons,  notoriously  corrupted  by  the 
crown,  whether  seven  millions  of  their  equals  shall  be  freemen  or 
slaves. 

These  are  truths  unquestionable.  If  they  make  no  impression, 
it  is  because  they  are  too  vulgar  and  notorious.  But  the  inatten- 
tion or  indifference  of  the  nation  has  continued  too  long.  You 
are  roused  at  last  to  a  sense  of  your  danger.  The  remedy  will 
soon  be  in  your  power.  If  Junius  lives,  you  shall  often  be  re- 
minded of  it.  If,  when  the  opportunity  presents  itself,  you  neg- 
lect to  do  your  duty  to  yourselves  and  to  posterity,  to  God  and 
to  your  country,  I  shall  have  one  consolation  left  in  common  with 
the  meanest  and  basest  of  mankind, — civil  liberty  may  still  last 
the  life  of  Juxius. 


TO  HIS   GRACE   THE  DUKE  OF  BEDFORD. 

J/y  Lord,  —  You  are  so  little  accustomed  to  receive  any  marks 
of  respect  or  esteem  from  the  public,  that  if,  in  the  following  lines, 
a  compliment,  or  expression  of  applause,  should  escape  me,  I  fear 
you  would  consider  it  as  a  mockery  of  your  established  character, 
and  perhaps  an  insult  to  your  understanding.  You  have  nice 
feelings,  my  lord,  if  we  may  judge  from  your  resentments.  Cau- 
tious, therefore,  of  giving  oirense  where  you  have  so  little  de- 
served it,  I  shall  leave  the  illustration  of  your  virtues  to  other 
hands.  Your  friends  have  a  privilege  to  play  upon  the  easiness 
of  your  temper;  or,  possibly,  they  are  better  acquainted  with  your 
good  qualities  than  I  am.  You  have  done  good  by  stealth.  The 
rest  is  upon  record.  You  have  still  left  ample  room  for  specula- 
tion when  panegyric  is  exhausted. 

You  are,  indeed,  a  very  considerable  man.  The  highest  rank, 
a  splendid  fortune,  and  a  name  glorious  till  it  was  yours,  were 
sufficient  to  have  supported  3^011  with  meaner  abilities  than  I  think 
you  possess.  From  the  first,  you  derived  a  constitutional  claim  to 
respect;  from  the  second,  a  natural  extensive  authority:  the  List 
created  a  partial  expectation  of  hereditary  virtues.  The  use  you 
have  made  of  these  uncommon  advantages  might  have  been  more 
honorable  to  yourself,  but  could  not  be  more  instructive  to  m.iu- 


JUNIUS.  425 

kind.  We  may  trace  it  in  the  veneration  of  your  country,  the 
choice  of  your  friends,  and  in  the  accomplishment  of  every  san- 
guine hope  which  the  public  might  have  conceived  from  the  illus- 
trious name  of  Russell. 

The  eminence  of  your  station  gave  you  a  commanding  prospect 
of  your  duty.  The  road  which  led  to  honor  was  open  to  your 
view.  You  could  not  lose  it  by  mistake ;  and  you  had  no  tempta- 
tion to  depart  from  it  by  design.  Compare  the  natural  dignity 
and  importance  of  the  richest  peer  of  England,  the  noble  inde- 
pendence which  he  might  have  maintained  in  Parliament,  and  the 
real  interest  and  respect  which  he  might  have  acquired,  not  only 
in  Parliament,  but  through  the  whole  kingdom,  —  compare  these 
glorious  distinctions  with  the  ambition  of  holding  a  share  in  gov- 
ernment, the  emoluments  of  a  place,  the  sale  of  a  borough,  or  the 
purchase  of  a  corporation;  and,  though  you  may  not  regret  the 
virtues  which  create  respect,  you  may  see  with  anguish  how 
much  real  importance  and  authority  you  have  lost.  Consider  the 
character  of  an  independent,  virtuous  Duke  of  Bedford;  imagine 
what  he  might  be  in  this  country ;  then  reflect  one  moment  upon 
what  you  are.  If  it  be  possible  for  me  to  withdraw  my  attention 
from  the  fact,  I  will  tell  you  in  theory  what  such  a  man  might  be. 

Conscious  of  his  own  weight  and  importance,  his  conduct  in 
'Parliament  would  be  directed  by  nothing  but  the  constitutional 
duty  of  a  peer.  He  would  consider  himself  as  a  guardian  of  tho 
laws.  Willing  to  support  the  just  measures  of  government,  but 
determined  to  observe  the  conduct  of  the  minister  with  suspicion, 
he  would  oppose  the  violence  of  faction  witli  as  much  firmness  aj 
the  encroachments  of  prerogative.  He  would  be  as  little  capable 
of  bargaining  with  the  minister  for  places  for  himself  or  his  de- 
pendants as  of  descending  to  mix  himself  in  the  intrigues  of  oppo- 
sition. Whenever  an  important  question  called  for  his  opinion  in 
Parliament,  he  would  be  heard  by  the  most  profligate  minister 
with  deference  and  respect.  His  authority  would  either  sanctify 
or  disgrace  the  measures  of  government.  The  people  would  look 
up  to  him  as  to  their  protector;  and  a  virtuous  prince  would  have 
one  honest  man  in  his  dominions  in  whose  integrity  and  judg- 
ment he  might  safely  confide.  If  it  should  be  the  \vill  of  Provi- 
dence to  afflict  him  with  a  domestic  misfortune,  he  would  submit 
to  the  stroke  with  feeling,  but  not  without  dignity.  He  would 
consider  the  people  as  his  children,  and  receive  a  generous,  heart- 
felt consolation  in  the  sympathizing  tears  and  blessings  of  his 
country. 

Your  Grace  may,  probably,  discover  something  more  intelligible 
in  the  negative  part  of  this  illustrious  character.  The  man  I  have 
described  would  never  prostitute  his  dignity  in  Parliament  by  an 
indecent  violence,  either  in  opposing  or  defending  a  minister.  He 


426  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

would  not  at  one  moment  rancorously  persecute,  at  another  basely 
cringe  to,  the  favorite  of  his  sovereign.  After  outraging  the  royal 
dignity  with  peremptory  conditions  little  short  'of  menace  and 
hostility,  he  would  never  descend  to  the  humility  of  soliciting  an 
interview  with  the  favorite,  and  of  offering  to  recover  at  any 
price  the  honor  of  his  friendship.  Though  deceived,  perhaps,  in 
his  3routh,  he  would  not,  through  the  course  of  a  long  life,  have 
invariably  chosen  his  friends  from  among  the  most  profligate  of 
mankind.  His  own  honor  would  have  forbidden  him  from  mixing 
his  private  pleasures  or  conversation  with  jockeys,  gamesters, 
blasphemers,  gladiators,  or  buffoons.  He  would  then  have  never 
felt,  much  less  would  he  have  submitted  to,  the  humiliating,  dis- 
honest necessity  of  engaging  in  the  interest  and  intrigues  of  his 
dependants,  of  supplying  their  vices,  or  relieving  their  beggary, 
at  the  expense  of  his  country.  He  would  not  have  betrayed  such 
ignorance  or  such  contempt  of  the  constitution  as  openly  to 
avow  in  a  court  of  justice  the  purchase  and  sale  of  a  borough. 
He  would  not  have  thought  it  consistent  with  his  rank  in  the 
state,  or  even  with  his  personal  importance,  to  be  the  little  tyrant 
of  a  little  corporation.  He  would  never  have  been  insulted  with 
virtues  which  he  had  labored  to  extinguish,  nor  suffered  the  dis- 
grace of  a  mortifying  defeat  which  has  maae  him  ridiculous  and 
contemptible  even  to  the  few  by  whom  he  was  not  detested.  I 
reverence  the  afflictions  of  a  good  man;  his  sorrows  are  sacred: 
but  how  can  we  take  part  in  the  distresses  of  a  man  whom  we  can 
neither  love  nor  esteem,  or  feel  for  a  calamity  of  which  he  him- 
self is  insensible  ?  Where  was  the  father's  heart,  when  he  could 
look  for  or  find  an  immediate  consolation  for  the  loss  of  an  only 
son  in  consultations  and  bargains  for  a  place  at  court,  and  even  in 
the  misery  of  balloting  at  the  India  House  ? 


ENCOMIUM   ON  LORD    CHATHAM. 

IT  seems  I  am  a  partisan  of  the  great  leader  of  the  opposition. 
If  the  charge  had  been  a  reproach,  it  should  have  been  better  sup- 
ported. I  did  not  intend  to  make  a  public  declaration  of  the 
respect  I  bear  Lord  Chatham.  I  well  knew  what  unworthy  con- 
clusions would  be  drawn  from  it.  But  I  am  called  upon  to  deliver 
my  opinion  ;  and  surely  it  is  not  in  the  little  censure  of  Mr.  Home 
to  deter  me  from  doing  signal  justice  to  a  man,  who,  I  confess,  has 
grown  upon  my  esteem.  As  for  the  common,  sordid  views  of  ava- 
rice, or  any  purpose  of  vulgar  ambition,  I  question  whether  the 
applause  of  Junius  would  be  of  service  to  Lord  Chatham.  J/// 
vote  will  hardly  recommend  him  to  an  increase  of  his  pension,  or 
to  a  seat  in  the  cabinet:  but  if  his  ambition  be  upon  a  level  with 


JUNIUS.  427 

his  understanding;  if  lie  judges  of  what  is  truly  honorable  for 
himself  with  the  same  superior  genius  which  animates  and  directs 
him  to  eloquence  in  debate,  to  wisdom  in  decision,  —  even  the  pen 
of  Junius  shall  contribute  to  reward  him.  Recorded  honors  shall 
gather  round  his  monument,  and  thicken  over  him.  It  is  a  solid 
fabric,  and  will  support  the  laurels  that  adorn  it.  I  am  not  con- 
versant in  the  language  of  panegyric  ;  these  praises  are  extorted 
from-  me :  but  they  will  wear  well ;  for  they  have  been  dearly 
earned. 


TO   THE  RIGHT  HONORABLE  LORD   CAMDEN. 

My  Lord,  —  I  turn  with  pleasure  from  that  barren  waste  in 
which  no  salutary  plant  takes  root,  no  verdure  quickens,  to  a  char- 
acter fertile,  as  I  willingly  believe,  in  every  great  and  good  quali- 
fication. I  call  upon  you,  in  the  name  of  the  English  nation,  to 
stand  forth  in  defense  of  the  laws  of  your  country,  and  to  exert 
in  the  cause  of  truth  and  justice  those  great  abilities  with  which 
you  were  intrusted  for  the  benefit  of  mankind.  Your  lordship's 
character  assures  me  that  you  will  assume  that  principal  part 
which  belongs  to. you,  in  supporting  the  laws  of  England  against 
a  wicked  judge',  who  makes  it  the  occupation  of  his  life  to  mis- 
interpret and  pervert  them.  If  you  decline  this  honorable  office, 
I  fear  it  will  be  said,  that,  for  some  months  past,  you  have  kept  too 
much  company  with  the  Duke  of  Grafton.  When  the  contest 
turns  upon  the  interpretation  of  the  laws,  you  can  not,  without  a 
formal  surrender  of  all  your  reputation,  yield  the  post  of  honor 
even  to  Lord  Chatham.  Considering  the  situation  and  abilities 
of  Lord  Mansfield,  I  do  not  scruple  to  affirm,  with  the  most  sol- 
emn appeal  to  God  for  my  sincerity,  that,  in  my  judgment,  he  is 
the  very  worst  and  most  dangerous  man  in  the  kingdom.  Thus 
far  I  have  done  my  duty  in  endeavoring  to  bring  him  to  punish- 
ment. But  mine  is  an  inferior,  ministerial  office  in  the  temple  of 
justice.  I  have  bound  the  victim,  and  dragged  him  to  the  altar. 

The  man  who  fairly  and  complete!}*-  answers  my  arguments 
shall  have  my  thanks  and  my  applause.  My  heart  is  already 
with  him.  I  am  ready  to  be  converted.  I  admire  his  morality, 
and  would  gladly  subscribe  to  the  articles  of  his  faith.  Grateful 
a-i  I  am  to  the  Good  Being  whose  bounty  has  imparted  to  me  this 
reasoning  intellect,  whatever  it  is,  I  hold  myself  proportionally 
indebted  to  him  from  whose  enlightened  understanding  another 
ray  of  knowledge  communicates  to  mine.  But  neither  should  I 
think  the  most  exalted  faculties  of  the  human  mind  a  gift  worthy 
of  the  Divinity,  nor  any  assistance  in  the  improvement  of  them 


428  ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

a  subject  of  gratitude  to  my  fellow-creature,  if  I  were  not  satisfied 
that  really  to  inform  the  understanding  corrects  and  enlarges 
the  heart. 


FROM  HIS  LETTER    TO    THE  KIXG. 

To  the  Printer  of  "  The  Public  Advertiser,"  —  When  the  com- 
plaints of  a  brave  and  powerful  people  are  observed  to  increase  in 
proportion  to  the  wrongs  they  have  suffered ;  when,  instead  of 
sinking  into  submission,  they  are  roused  to  resistance,  —  the  time 
will  soon  arrive  at  which  every  inferior  consideration  must  yield 
to  the  security  of  the  sovereign,  and  to  the  general  safety  of  the 
state.  There  is  a  moment  of  difficult}'  and  danger  at  which  flat- 
ten* and  falsehood  can  no  longer  deceive,  and  simplicity  itself  can 
no  longer  be  misled.  Let  us  suppose  it  arrived.  Let  us  suppose 
a  gracious,  well-intentioned  prince  made  sensible  at  last  of  the 
great  duty  he  owes  to  his  people,  and  of  his  own  disgraceful  situ- 
ation ;  that  he  looks  round  him  for  assistance,  and  asks  for  no 
advice  but  how  to  gratify  the  wishes  and  secure  the  happiness 
of  his  subjects.  In  these  circumstances,  it  may  be  matter  of  curi- 
ous speculation  to  consider,  if  an  honest  man  were  permitted  to 
approach  a  king,  in  what  terms  he  would  address  himself  to  his 
sovereign.  Let  it  be  imagined,  no  matter  how  improbable,  that 
the  first  prejudice  against  his  character  is  removed;  that  the 
ceremonious  difficulties  of  an  audience  are  surmounted ;  that  he 
feels  himself  animated  by  the  purest  and  most  honorable  affections 
to  his  king  and  country;  and  that  the  great  person  whom  he  ad- 
dresses has  spirit  enough  to  bid  him  speak  freely,  and  understand- 
ing enough  to  listen  to  him  with  attention.  Unacquainted  with 
the  vain  impertinence  of  forms,  he  would  deliver  his  sentiments 
with  dignity  and  firmness,  but  not  without  respect. 

Sirj  —  It  is  the  misfortune  of  your  life,  and  originally  the 
cause  of  every  reproach  and  distress  which  has  attended  your  gov- 
ernment, that  3*ou  should  never  have  been  acquainted  with  the 
language  of  truth  until  you  heard  it  in  the  complaints  of  your 
people.  It  is  not,  however,  too  late  to  correct  the  error  of  your 
education.  "We  are  still  inclined  to  make  an  indulgent  allowance 
for  the  pernicious  lessons  you  received  in  your  youth,  and  to  form 
the  most  sanguine  hopes  from  the  natural  benevolence  of  your 
disposition.  We  are  far  from  thinking  you  capable  of  a  direct, 
deliberate  purpose  to  invade  those  original  rights  of  your  subjects 
on  which  all  their  civil  and  political  liberties  depend.  Had  it 
been  possible  for  us  to  entertain  a  suspicion  so  dishonorable  to 
your  character,  we  should  long  since  have  adopted  a  style  of  re- 
monstrance very  distant  from  the  humility  of  complaint.  The 


JUNIUS.  429 

doctrine  inculcated  by  our  laws,  that  the  king  can  do  no  wrong, 
is  admitted  without  reluctance.  We  separate  the  amiable,  good- 
natured  prince  from  the  folly  and  treachery  of  his  servants,  and 
the  private  virtues  of  the  man  from  the  vices  of  his  government. 
Were  it  not  for  this  just  distinction,  I  know  not  whether  your 
Majesty's  condition,  or  that  of  the  English  nation,  would  deserve 
most  to  be  lamented.  I  would  prepare  your  mind  for  a  favorable 
reception  of  truth  by  removing  every  painful,  offensive  idea  of 
personal  reproach.  Your  subjects,  sir,  wish  for  nothing  but  that : 
as  they  are  reasonable  and  affectionate  enough  to  separate  your 
person  from  your  government,  so  you,  in  your  turn,  should  distin- 
guish between  the  conduct  which  becomes  the  permanent  dignity 
of  a  king  and  that  which  serves  only  to  promote  the  temporary 
interest  and  miserable  ambition  of  a  minister. 

You  ascended  the  throne  with  a  declared,  and,  I  doubt  not,  a 
sincere  resolution  of  giving  universal  satisfaction  to  your  subjects. 
You  found  them  pleased  with  the  novelty  of  a  young  prince 
whose  countenance  promised  even  more  than  his  words,  and  loyal 
to  you,  not  only  from  principle,  but  passion.  It  was  not  a  cold 
profession  of  allegiance  to  the  first  magistrate,  but  a  partial,  ani- 
mated attachment  to  a  favorite  prince,  the  native  of  their  country. 
They  did  not  wait  to  examine  your  conduct,  nor  to  be  determined 
by  experience,  but  gave  you  a  generous  credit  for  the  future  bless- 
ings of  your  reign,  and  paid  you  in  advance  the  dearest  tribute  of 
their  affections.  Such,  sir,  was  once  the  disposition  of  a  people 
who  now  surround  your  throne  with  reproaches  and  complaints. 
Do  justice  to  yourself.  Banish  from  your  mind  those  unworthy 
opinions  with  which  some  interested  persons  have  labored  to  pos- 
sess you.  Distrust  the  men  who  tell  you  that  the  English  are 
naturally  light  and  inconstant;  that  they  complain  without  a 
cause.  Withdraw  your  confidence  equally  from  all  parties,  — 
from  ministers,  favorites,  and  relations ;  and  let  there  be  one  mo- 
ment in  your  life  in.  which  you  have  consulted  your  own  under- 
standing. 

You  have  still  an  honorable  part  to  act.  The  affections  of  your 
subjects  may  still  be  recovered.  But,  before  you  subdue  their 
hearts,  you  must  gain  a  noble  victory  over  your  own.  Discard 
those  little  personal  resentments  which  have  too  long  directed 
your  public  conduct.  Pardon  this  man  the  remainder  of  his  pun- 
ishment; and,  if  resentment  still  prevails,  make  it,  what  it  should 
have  been  long  since,  an  act,  not  of  mercy,  but  contempt.  He 
will  soon  fall  back  into  his  natural  station,  —  a  silent  senator,  and 
hardly  supporting  the  weekly  eloquence  of  a  newspaper.  The 
gentle  breath  of  peace  would  leave  him  on  the  surface,  neglected 
and  unremoved :  it  is  only  the  tempest  that  lifts  him  from  his 
place. 


430  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

TVithoiit  consulting  your  minister,  call  together  your  whole 
council.  Let  it  appear  to  the  public  that  you  can  determine  and 
act  for  yourself.  Come  forward  to  your  people.  Lay  aside  the 
wretched  formalities  of  a  king,  and  speak  to  your  subjects  with 
the  spirit  of  a  man,  and  in  the  language  of  a  gentleman.  Tell 
them  you  have  been  fatally  deceived.  The  acknowledgment  will 
be  no  disgrace,  but  rather  an  honor  to  your  understanding.  Tell 
them  you  are  determined  to  remove  every  cause  of  complaint 
against  your  government ;  that  you  will  give  your  confidence  to 
no  man  who  does  not  possess  the  confidence  of  your  subjects ;  and 
leave  it  to  themselves  to  determine,  by  their  conduct  at  a  future 
election,  whether  or  no  it  be  in  reality  the  general  sense  of  the 
nation  that  their  rights  have  been  arbitrarily  invaded  by  the  pres- 
ent House  of  Commons,  and  the  constitution  betrayed.  They 
will  then  do  justice  to  their  representatives  and  to  themselves. 

These  sentiments,  sir,  and  the  style  they  are  conveyed  in,  may 
be  offensive,  perhaps,  because  they  are  new  to  you.  Accustomed 
to  the  language  of  courtiers,  you  measure  their  affections  by  the 
vehemence  of  their  expressions  ;  and,  when  they  only  praise  you 
indirectly,  you  admire  their  sincerity.  But  this  is  not  a  time  to 
trifle  witli  your  fortune.  They  deceive  you,  sir,  who  tell  you  that 
you  have  many  friends  whose  affections  are  founded  upon  a  prin- 
ciple of  personal  attachment.  The  first  foundation  of  friendship 
is,  not  the  power  of  conferring  benefits,  but  the  equality  with  which 
they  are  received,  and  may  be  returned.  The  fortune  which  made 
you  a  king  forbade  you  to  have  a  friend :  it  is  a  law  of  nature 
which  can  not  be  violated  with  impunity.  The  mistaken  prince 
who  looks  for  friendship  will  find  a  favorite,  and  in  that  favorite 
the  ruin  of  his  affairs. 

The  people  of  England  are  loyal  to  the  house  of  Hanover,  not 
from  a  vain  preference  of  one  family  to  another,  but  from  a  con- 
viction that  the  establishment  of  that  family  was  necessary  to  the 
support  of  their  civil  and  religious  liberties.  This,  sir,  is  a  prin- 
ciple of  allegiance  equally  solid  and  rational,  fit  for  Englishmen 
to  adopt,  and  well  worthy  of  3*our  Majesty's  encouragement.  We 
can  not  long  be  deluded  by  nominal  distinctions.  The  name  of 
Stuart,  of  itself,  is  only  contemptible :  armed  with  the  sovereign 
authority,  their  principles  are  formidable.  The  prince  who  imi- 
tates their  conduct  should  be  warned  by  their  example,  and, 
while  he  plumes  himself  upon  the  security  of  his  title  to  the 
crown,  should  remember,  that,  as  it  was  acquired  by  one  revolu- 
tion, it  may  be  lost  by  another. 


SAMUEL  JOHNSOX.  431 

SAMUEL    JOHNSON. 

1709-1784. 

Distinguished  compiler  of  an  English  dictionary;  author  of  "  Rasselas,  a  Tale 
of  Abyssinia;"  many  poems  and  satires;  moral  "essays  in  the  "Rambler"  and 
"  Idler,"  periodicals  ;  '"  Lives  of  the  Poets."  His  influence  on  the  literature  of  the 
clay  was  very  great;  and  his  heavy,  classical  style  is  admirably  characterized  by 
Goldsmith,  who  said  to  him,  "  If  you  were  to  write  a  fable  about* little  fishes,  doctor, 
you  would  make  the  little  fishes  talk  like  whales.1" 


LETTER    TO   LORD    CHESTERFIELD. 

My  Lord,  —  I  have  been  lately  informed  by  the  proprietor 
of  "The  World,"  that  two  papers,  in  which  my  Dictionary  is 
recommended  to  the  public,  were  written  by  your  lordship.  To  be 
so  distinguished  is  an  honor,  which,  being  very  little  accustomed 
to  favors  from  the  great,  I  know  not  well  how  to  receive,  or  in 
what  terms  to  acknowledge. 

When,  upon  some  slight  encouragement,  I  first  visited  your 
lordship,  I  was  overpowered,  like  the  rest  of  mankind,  by  the 
enchantment  of  your  address,  and  could  not  forbear  to  wish  that 
I  might  boast  myself  le  vainqueur  du  vainqueur  de  la  terre,  — 
that  I  might  obtain  that  regard  for  which  I  saw  the  world 
contending ;  but  I  found  my  attendance  so  little  encouraged, 
that  neither  pride  nor  modesty  would  suffer  me  to  continue 
it.  When  I  had  once  addressed  your  lordship  in  public,  I 
had  exhausted  all  the  art  of  pleasing  which  a  retired  and  un- 
courtly  scholar  can  possess.  I  had  done  all  that  I  could; 
and  no  man  is  well  pleased  to  have  his  all  neglected,  be  it 
ever  so  little. 

Seven  years,  my  lord,  have  now  passed  since  I  waited  in  your 
outward  rooms,  or  was  repulsed  from  your  door ;  during  which 
time  I  have  been  pushing  on  my  work  through  difficulties  of 
which  it  is  useless  to  complain ;  and  have  brought  it,  at  last,  to 
the  verge  of  publication,  without  one  act  of  assistance,  one  word 
of  encouragement,  or  one  smile  of  favor.  Such  treatment  I  did 
not  expect ;  for  I  never  had  a  patron  before. 

The  shepherd  in  "Virgil"  grew  at  last  acquainted  with  Love, 
and  found  him  a  native  of  the  rocks. 

Is  not  a  patron,  my  lord,  one  who  looks  with  unconcern  on  a 
man  struggling  for  life  in  the  water,  and,  when  he  has  reached 
the  ground,  encumbers  him  with  help  ?  The  notice  which  you 
have  been  pleased  to  take  of  my  labors,  had  it  been  early,  had 
been  kind :  but  it  has  been  delayed  till  1  am  indifferent,  and  can 


43:2  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

not  enjoy  it ;  till  I  am  solitary,  and  can  not  impart  it ;  till  I 
am  known,  and  do  not  want  it.,  I  hope  it  is  no  very  cynical 
asperity  not  to  confess  obligations  where  no  benefit  has  been  re- 
ceived, or  to  be  unwilling  that  the  public  should  consider  me  as 
owing  that  to  a  patron  which  Providence  has  enabled  me  to  do  for 
myself. 

Having  carried  on  my  work  thus  far  with  so  little  obligation  to 
any  favorer  of  learning,  I  shall  not  be  disappointed  though  I 
should  conclude  it,  if  less  be  possible,  with  less ;  for  I  have  been 
long  wakened  from  that  dream  of  hope  in  which  I  once  boasted 
myself  with  so  much  exultation, 
My  lord, 

Your  lordship's  most  humble, 

Most  obedient  servant, 

SAMUEL  JOHNSON. 

EXTRACT   FROM    THE   PREFACE    TO    THE   DICTIONARY. 

Ix  hope  of  giving  longevity  to  that  which  its  own  nature  forbids 
to  be  immortal,  I  have  devoted  this  book,  the  labor  of  }*ears,  to 
the  honor  of  my  country,  that  we  may  no  longer  yield  the  palm  of 
philology,  without  a  contest,  to  the  nations  of  the  Continent.  The 
chief  glory  of  every  people  arises  from  its  authors  :  whether  I 
shall  add  any  thing  by  my  own  writings  to  the  reputation  of 
English  literature  must  be  left  to  time.  Much  of  my  life  has 
been  lost  under  the  pressures  of  disease  ;  much  has  been  trifled 
away  ;  and  much  has  always  been  spent  in  provision  for  .the  day 
that  was  passing  over  me  :  but  I  shall  not  think  my  employment 
useless  or  ignoble,  if,  by  my  assistance,  foreign  nations  and  distant 
ages  gain  access  to  the  propagators  of  knowledge,  and  understand 
the  teachers  of  truth  ;  if  my  labors  afford  light  to  the  repositories 
of  science,  and  add  celebrity  to  Bacon,  to  Hooker,  to  Milton,  and 
to  Boyle. 

When  I  am  animated  by  this  wish,  I  look  with  pleasure  on  my 
book,  however  defective,  and  deliver  it  to  the  world  with  the  spirit 
of  a  man  that  has  endeavored  well.  That  it  will  immediately 
become  popular,  I  have  not  promised  to  myself.  A  few  wild 
blunders  and  risible  absurdities,  from  which  no  work  of  such 
multiplicity  was  ever  free,  may  for  a  time  furnish  folly  with 
laughter,  and  harden  ignorance  into  contempt.  But  useful  dili- 
gence will  at  last  prevail :  and  there  can  never  be  wanting  some 
who  distinguish  desert,  who  will  consider  that  no  dictionary  of  a 
living  tongue  ever  can  be  perfect,  £ince,  while  it  is  hastening  to 
publication,  some  words  are  budding,  and  some  falling  away  :  that 
a  whole  life  can  not  be  spent  upon  syntax  and  etymology,  and  that 
even  a  whole  life  would  not  be  sufficient ;  that  he  whose  design 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON.  433 

includes  whatever  language  can  express  must  often  speak  of  what 
he  does  not  understand  ;  that  a  writer  will  sometimes  be  hurried 
by  eagerness  to  the  end,  and  sometimes  faint  with  weariness  under 
a  task  which  Scaliger  compares  to  the  labors  of  the  anvil  and  the 
mine ;  that  what  is  obvious  is  not  always  known,  and  what  is 
known  is  not  always  present ;  that  sudden  fits  of  inadvertency 
will  surprise  vigilance,  slight  avocations  will  seduce  attention, 
and  casual  eclipses  of  the  inind  will  darken  learning;  and  .that' 
the  writer  shall  often  in  vain  trace  his  memory  at  the  moment 
of  need  for  that  which  yesterday  he  knew  with  intuitive  readiness, 
and  which  will  come  uncalled  into  his  thoughts  to-morrow. 

In  this  work,  when  it  shall  be  found  that  much  is  omitted,  let 
it  not  be  forgotten  that  much,  likewise,  is  performed  ;  and  though 
no  book  was  ever  spared  out  of  tenderness  to  the  author,  and  the 
world  is  little  solicitous  to  know  whence  proceeded  the  faults  of 
that  which  it  condemns,  yet  it  may  gratify  curiosity  to  inform  it, 
that  "  The  English  Dictionary  "  was  written  with  little  assistance 
of  the  learned,  and  without  any  patronage  of  the  great ;  not  in  the 
soft  obscurities  of  retirement,  or  under  the  shelter  of  academic 
bowers,  but  amid  inconvenience  and  distraction,  in  sickness  and 
in  sorrow.  It  may  repress  the  triumph  of  malignant  criticism  to 
observe,  that,  if  our  language  is  not  here  fully  displayed,  I  have 
only  failed  in  an  attempt  which  no  human  powers  have  hitherto 
completed.  If  the  lexicons  of  ancient  tongues,  now  immutably 
fixed,  and  comprised  in  a  few  volumes,  be  yet,  after  ^he  toil  of 
successive  ages,  inadequate  and  delusive ;  if  the  aggregated 
knowledge  and  co-operating  diligence  of  the  Italian  academicians 
did  not  secure  them  from  the  censure  of  Beni;  if  the  embodied 
critics  of  France,  when  fifty  years  had  been  spent  upon  their 
work,  were  obliged  to  change  its  economy,  and  give  their  second 
edition  another  form,  —  I  may  surely  be  contented  without  the 
praise  of  perfection,  which  if  I  could  obtain  in  this  gloom  of 
solitude,  what  would  it  avail  me  ?  I  have  protracted  my  work  till 
most  of  those  whom  I  wished  to  please  have  sunk  into  the  grave ; 
and  success  and  miscarriage  are  empty  sounds.  I  therefore  dis- 
miss it  with  frigid  tranquillity,  having  little  to  fear  or  hope  from 
censure  or  from  praise. 

THE   VOYAGE    OF  LTFE. 

"LiFE,"  says  Seneca,  "is  a  voyage,  in  the  progress  of  which  we 
are  perpetually  changing  our  scenes :  we  first  leave  childhood 
behind  us,  then  youth,  then  the  years  of  ripened  manhood,  then 
the  better  and  more  pleasing  part  of  old  age."  The  perusal  of 
this  passage  having  incited  in  me  a  train  of  reflections  on  the 
state  of  man,  the  incessant  fluctuation  of  his  wishes,  the  gradual 

28 


434  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

change  of  his  disposition  to  all  external  objects,  and  the  thought- 
lessness with  which  lie  floats  along  the  Stream  of  Time,  I  sank 
into  a  slumber  amidst  my  meditations,  and  on  a  sudden  found 
my  ears  filled  with  the  tumult  of  labor,  the  shouts  of  alacrity, 
the  shrieks  of  alarm,  the  whistle  of  winds,  and  the  dash  of 
waters. 

My  astonishment  for  a  time  repressed  my  curiosity ;  but  soon 
recovering  myself  so  far  as  to  inquire  whither  we  were  going,  and 
what  was  the  cause  of  such  clamor  and  confusion,  I  was  told  that 
they  were  launching  out  into  the  Ocean  of  Life  ;  that  we  had 
already  passed  the  Straits  of  Infancy,  in  which  multitudes  had 
perished,  some  by  the  weakness  and  fragility  of  their  vessels,  and 
more  by  the  folty,  perverseness,  or  negligence  of  those  who  under- 
took to  steer  them  ;  and  that  we  were  now  on  the  main  sea, 
abandoned  to  the  winds  and  billows,  without  any  other  means  of 
security  than  the  care  of  the  pilot,  whom  it  was  always  in  our 
power  to  choose  among  great  numbers  that  offered  their  direction 
and  assistance. 

I  then  looked  round  with  anxious  eagerness,  and,  first  turning 
my  eyes  behind  me,  saw  a  stream  flowing  through  flowery 
islands,  which  every  one  that  sailed  along  seemed  to  behold 
with  pleasure,  but  no  sooner  touched,  than  the  current,  which, 
though  not  noisy  or  turbulent,  was  yet  irresistible,  bore  him 
away.  Beyond  these  islands,  all  was  darkness ;  nor  could  any  of 
the  passengers  describe  the  shore  at  which  he  first  embarked. 

Before  me,  and  on  each  side,  was  an  expanse  of  waters  violently 
agitated,  and  covered  with  so  thick  a  mist,  that  the  most  per- 
spicacious eye  could  see  but  a  little  way.  It  appeared  to  be 
full  of  rocks  and  whirlpools;  for  many  sank  unexpectedly  while 
they  were  courting  the  gale  with  full  sails,  and  insulting  those 
whom  they  had  left  behind.  So  numerous,  indeed,  were  the 
dangers,  and  so  thick  the  darkness,  that  no  caution  could  confer 
security.  Yet  there  were  many,  who,  by  false  intelligence, 
betrayed  their  followers  into  whirlpools,  or,  by  violence,  pushed 
those  whom  the}*  found  in  their  way  against  the  rocks. 

The  current  was  invariable  and  insurmountable  ;  but  though 
it  was  impossible  to  sail  against  it,  or  to  return  to  the  place 
that  was  once  passed,  yet  it  was  not  so  violent  as  to  allow  no 
opportunities  for  dexterity  or  courage,  since,  though  none  could 
retreat  back  from  danger,  yet  they  might  often  avoid  it  by  oblique 
direction. 

It  was,  however,  not  very  common  to  steer  with  much  care  or 
prudence  ;  for,  by  some  universal  infatuation,  every  man  appeared 
to  think  himself  safe,  though  he  saw  his  consorts  every  moment 
sinking  round  him  :  and  no  sooner  had  the  waves  closed  over 
them  than  their  fate  and  misconduct  were  forgotten  ;  the  voyage 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON.  435 

was  pursued  with  the  same  jocund  confidence  ;  every  man  con- 
gratulated himself  upon  the  soundness  of  his  vessel,  and  be- 
lieved himself  able  to  stem  the  whirlpool  in  which  his  friend  was 
swallowed,  or  glide  over  the  rocks  on  which  he  was  dashed. 
Kor  was  it  often  observed  that  the  sight  of  a  wreck  made  any 
man  change  his  course  :  if  he  turned  aside  for  a  moment,  he 
soon  forgot  the  rudder,  and  left  himself  again  to  the  disposal  of 
chance. 

_This  negligence  did  not  proceed  from  indiiference,  or  from 
weariness  of  their  present  condition  :  for  not  one  of  those  who 
thus  rushed  upon  destruction  failed,  when  he  was  sinking,  to  call 
loudly  upon  his  associates  for  that  help  which  could  not  now  be 
given  him;  and  many  spent  their  last  moments  in  cautioning 
others  against  the  folly  by  which  they  were  intercepted  in  the 
midst  of  their  course.  Their  benevolence  was  sometimes  praised  ; 
but  their  admonitions  were  unregarded. 

The  vessels  in  which  we  had  embarked,  being  confessedly 
unequal  to  the  turbulence  of  the  Stream  of  Life,  were  visibly 
impaired*  in  the  course  of  the  voyage ;  so  that  every  passenger 
was  certain,  that  how  long  soever  he  might,  by  favorable 
accidents  or  by  incessant  vigilance,  be  preserved,  he  must  sink 
at  last. 

This  necessity  of  perishing  might  have  been  expected  to  sadden 
the  gay,  and  intimidate  the  daring,  at  least  to  keep  the  melan- 
choly and  timorous  in  perpetual  torments,  and  hinder  them  from 
any  enjoyment  of  the  varieties  and  gratifications  which  Nature 
offered  them  as  the  solace  of  their  labor.  Yet,  in  effect,  none 
seemed  less  to  expect  destruction  than  those  to  whom  it  was 
most  dreadful:  they  all  had  the  art  of  concealing  their  dangers 
from  themselves;  and  those  who  knew  their  inability  to  bear 
the  sight  of  the  terrors  that  embarrassed  their  way  took  care 
never  to  look  forward,  but  found  some  amusement  for  the  present 
moment,  and  generally  entertained  themselves  by  playing  with 
Hope,  who  was  the  constant  associate  of  the  Voyage  of  Life. 

Yet  all  that  Hope  ventured  to  promise,  even  to  those  whom 
she  favored  most,  was,  not  that  they  should  escape,  but  that 
they  should  sink  last;  and  with  this  promise  every  one  was 
satisfied,  though  he  laughed  at  the  rest  for  seeming  to  believe 
it.  Hope,  indeed,  apparently  mocked  the  credulity  of  her  com- 
panions ;  for,  in  proportion  as  their  vessels  grew  leaky,  she  re- 
doubled her  assurances  of  safety :  and  none  were  more  busy  in 
making  provisions  for  a  long  voyage  than  they  whom  all  but 
themselves  saw  likely  to  perish  soon  by  irreparable  decay. 

In  the  midst  of  the  Current  of  Life  was  the  Gulf  of  Intemper- 
ance, —  a  dreadful  whirlpool,  interspersed  with  rocks,  of  which  the 
pointed  crags  were  concealed  under  water,  and  the  tops  covered 


436  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

with  herbage  on  which  Ease  spread  couches  of  repose,  and  with 
shades  where  Pleasure  warbled  tjie  "song  of  invitation.  Within 
sight  of  these  rocks  all  who  sailed  011  the  Ocean  of  Life  must 
necessarily  pass.  Reason,  indeed,  was  always  at  hand  to  steer 
the  passengers  through  a  narrow  outlet  by  which  they  might 
escape :  but  very  few  could,  by  her  entreaties  or  remonstrances,  be 
induced  to  put  the  rudder  into  her  hand  without  stipulating  that 
she  should  approach  so  near  unto  the  rocks  of  Pleasure,  that  they 
might  solace  themselves  with  a  short  enjoyment  of  that  delicious 
region  ;  after  which  they  always  determined  to  pursue  their  course 
without  any  other  deviation. 

Reason  was  too  often  prevailed  upon  so  far  by  these  promises 
as  to  venture  her  charge  within  the  eddy  of  the  Gulf  of  Intem- 
perance, where,  indeed,  the  circumvolution  was  weak,  but  yet  in- 
terrupted the  course  of  the  vessel,  and  drew  it  by  insensible  ro- 
tations towards  the  center.  She  then  repented  her  temerity,  and, 
with  all  her  force,  endeavored  to  retreat :  but  the  draught  of  the 
gulf  was  generally  too  strong  to  be  overcome ;  and  the  passenger, 
having  danced  in  circles  with  a  pleasing  and  giddy  velocity,  was 
at  last  overwhelmed  and  lost.  Those  few  whom  Reason  was 
able  to  extricate,  generally  suffered  so  many  shocks  upon  the 
points  which  shot  out  from  the  rocks  of  Pleasure,  that  they 
were  imable  to  continue  their  course  with  the  same  strength 
and  facility  as  before,  but  floated  along  timorously  and  feebly, 
endangered  by  every  breeze,  and  shattered  by  every  ruffle  of 
the  water,  till  they  sank  by  slow  degrees,  after  long  struggles 
and  innumerable  expedients,  always  repining  at  their  own  folly, 
and  warning  others  against  the  first  approach  to  the  Gulf  of 
Intemperance. 

There  were  artists  who  professed  to  repair  the  breaches  and  stop 
the  leaks  of  the  vessels  which  had  been  shattered  on  the  rocks  of 
Pleasure.  Many  appeared  to  have  great  confidence  in  their  skill ; 
and  some,  indeed,  were  preserved  by  it  from  sinking,  who  had  re- 
ceived only  a  single  blow:  but  I  remarked  that  few  vessels  lasted 
long  which  had  been  much  repaired;  nor  was  it  found  that  the 
artists  themselves  continued  afloat  longer  than  those  who  had 
least  of  their  assistance. 

The  only  advantage,  which,  in  the  Voyage  of  Life,  the  cautious 
had  above  the  negligent,  was  that  they  sank  later  and  more 
suddenly ;  for  they  passed  forward  till  they  had  sometimes  seen 
all  those  in  whose  company  they  had  issued  from  the  Straits  of 
Infancy  perish  in  the  way,  and  at  last  were  overset  by  a  cross- 
breeze,  without  the  toil  of  resistance  or  the  anguish  of  expectation. 
But  such  as  had  often  fallen  against  the  rocks  of  Pleasure  com- 
monly subsided  by  sensible  degrees,  contended  long  with  the 
encroaching  waters,  and  harassed  themselves  by  labors  that  scarce 
Hope  herself  could  flatter  with  success. 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON.  437 

As  I  was  looking  upon  the  various  fate  of  the  multitude 
about  me,  I  was  suddenly  alarmed  with  an  admonition  from 
some  unknown  Power :  "  Gaze  not  idly  upon  others  when  thou 
thyself  art  sinking.  Whence  is  this  thoughtless  tranquillity, 
when  thou  and  they  are  equally  endangered  ?  "  I  looked,  and, 
seeing  the  Gulf  of  Intemperance  before  me,  started  and  awaked. 

Rambler. 


THE   EIGHT   IMPROVEMENT    OF    TIME. 

IT  is  usual  for  those  who  are  advised  to  the  attainment  of 
any  new  qualification  to  look  upon  themselves  as  required  to 
change  the  general  course  of  their  conduct,  to  dismiss  business  and 
exclude  pleasure,  and  to  devote  their  days  and  nights  to  a  par- 
ticular attention.  But  all  common  degrees  of  excellence  are 
attainable  at  a  lower  price.  He  that  should  steadily  and  resolutely 
assign  to  any  science  or  language  those  interstitial  vacancies 
which  intervene  in  the  most  crowded  variety  of  diversion  or  em- 
ployment would  find  every  day  new  irradiations  of  knowledge, 
and  discover  how  much  more  is  to  be  hoped  from  frequency  and 
perseverance  than  from  violent  efforts  and  sudden  desires,  —  efforts 
which  are  soon  remitted  when  they  encounter  difficult}',  and 
desires,  which,  if  they  are  indulged  too  often,  will  shake  off 
the  authority  of  reason,  and  range  capriciously  from  one  object  to 
another. 

The  disposition  to  defer  every  important  design  to  a  time  of 
leisure  and  a  state  of  settled  uniformity,  proceeds,  generally,  from 
a  false  estimate  of  the  human  power.  If  we  except  those  gigantic 
and  stupendous  intelligences  who  are  said  to  grasp  a  system  by 
intuition,  and  bound  forward  from  one  series  of  conclusions  to 
another,  without  regular  steps  through  intermediate  propositions, 
the  most  successful  students  make  their  advances  in  knowledge 
by  short  flights,  between  each  of  which  the  mind  may  lie  at  rest. 
For  every  single  act  of  progression,  a  short  time  is  sufficient ;  and 
it  is  only  necessary,  that,  whenever  that  time  is  affojded,  it  be  well 
employed. 

Few  minds  will  be  long  confined  to  severe  and  laborious  medi- 
tation ;  and,  when  a  successful  attack  on  knowledge  has  been 
made,  the  student  recreates  himself  with  the  contemplation  of  his 
conquest,  and  forbears  another  incursion  till  the  new-acquired 
truth  has  become  familiar,  and  his  curiosity  calls  upon  him  for 
fresh  gratifications.  Whether  the  time  of  intermission  is  spent  in 
company  or  in  solitude,  in  necessary  business  or  in  voluntary 
levities,  the  understanding  is  equally  abstracted  from  the  object 
of  inquiry  ;  but  perhaps,  if  it  be  detained  by  occupations  less 


438  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

pleasing,  it  returns  again  to  study  with  greater  alacrity  than 
when  it  is  glutted  with  ideal  pleasures  and  surfeited  with  in- 
temperance of  application.  He  that  will  not  sutler  himself  to  be 
discouraged  by  fancied  impossibilities  may  sometimes  find  his 
abilities  invigorated  by  the  necessity  of  exerting  them  in  short 
intervals,  as  the  force  of  a  current  is  increased  by  the  contraction 
of  its  channel. 

From  some  cause  like  this,  it  has  probably  proceeded,  that, 
among  those  who  have  contributed  to  the  advancement  of  learning, 
many  have  risen  to  eminence  in  opposition  to  all  the  obstacles 
which  external  circumstances  could  place  in  their  way,  —  amidst 
the  tumult  of  business,  the  distresses  of  poverty,  or  the  dissipations 
of  a  wrandering  and  unsettled  state.  A  great  part  of  the  life  of 
Erasmus  was  one  continual  peregrination :  ill  supplied  with  the 
gifts  of  fortune,  and  led  from  city  to  city,  and  from  kingdom  to 
kingdom,  by  the  hopes  of  patrons  and  preferment,  —  hopes  which 
always  flattered  and  always  deceived  him, — he  yet  found  means, 
by  unshaken  constancy,  and  a  vigilant  improvement  of  those 
hours,  which,  in  the  midst  of  the  most  restless  activity,  will 
remain  unengaged,  to  write  more  than  another  in  the  same  con- 
dition would  have  hoped  to  read.  Compelled  by  want  to  attend- 
ance and  solicitation,  and  so  much  versed  in  common  life  that  he 
has  transmitted  to  us  the  most  perfect  delineation  of  the  manners 
of  his  age,  he  joined  to  his  knowledge  of  the  world  such  ap- 
plication to  books,  that  he  will  stand  for  ever  in  the  first  rank 
of  literary  heroes.  How  this  proficiency  was  obtained,  he  suf- 
ficiently discovers  by  informing  us  that  "  The  Praise  of  Folly," 
one  of  his  most  celebrated  performances,  was  composed  by  him 
on  the  road  to  Italy,  lest  the  hours  which  he  was  obliged  to 
spend  on  horseback  should  be  tattled  away  without  regard  to 
literature. 

An  Italian  philosopher  expressed  in  his  motto,  that  TIME  WAS 
HIS  ESTATE,  —  an  estate,  indeed,  which  will  produce  nothing 
without  cultivation,  but  will  always  abundantly  repay  the  labors 
of  industry,  and  satisfy  the  most  extensive  desires,  if  no  part  of 
it  be  suffered  to  lie  waste  by  negligence,  to  be  overrun  with  nox- 
ious plants,  or  laid  out  for  show  rather  than  for  use. 

Rambler. 


THE    DUTY   OF  FORGIVENESS. 

A  WISE  man  will  make  haste  to  forgive,  because  he  knows  the 
true  value  of  time,  and  will  not  suffer  it  to  pass  away  in  unneces- 
sary pain.  He  that  willingly  suffers  the  corrosions  of  inveterate 
hatred,  and  gives  up  his  days  and  nights  to  the  gloom  of  malice  and 
perturbations  of  stratagem,  can  not  surely  be  said  to  consult  his 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON.  439 

ease.  Resentment  is  a  union  of  sorrow  with  malignity,  —  a  com- 
bination of  a  passion  which  all  endeavor  to  avoid  with  a  passion 
which  all  concur  to  detest.  The  man  who  retires  to  meditate 
mischief,  and  to  exasperate  his  own  rage ;  whose  thoughts  are 
employed  only  on  means  of  distress,  and  contrivances  of  ruin ; 
whose  mind  never  pauses  from  the  remembrance  of  his  own 
suiferings  but  to  indulge  some  hope  of  enjoying  the  calamities 
of  another,  —  may  justly  be  numbered  among  the  most  miserable 
of  human  beings ;  among  those  who  are  guilty  without  reward, 
who  have  neither  the  gladness  of  prosperity  nor  the  calm  of 
innocence. 

Whoever  considers  the  weakness  both  of  himself  and  others 
will  not  long  want  persuasives  to  forgiveness.  We  know  not  to 
what  degree  of  malignity  any  injury  is  to  be  imputed;  or  how 
much  its  guilt,  if  we  were  to  inspect  the  mind  of  him  that 
committed  it,  would  be  extenuated  by  mistake,  precipitance,  or 
negligence :  we  can  not  be  certain  how  much  more  we  feel  than 
was  intended  to  be  inflicted,  or  how  much  we  increase  the  mischief 
to  ourselves  by  voluntary  aggravations.  We  may  charge  to  design 
the  effects  of  accident;  we  may  think  the  blow  violent  only 
because  we  have  made  ourselves  delicate  and  tender:  we  are  on 
every  side  in  danger  of  error  and  of  guilt,  which  we  are  certain 
to  avoid  only  by  speedy  forgiveness. 

From  this  pacific  and  harmless  temper,  thus  propitious  toothers 
and  ourselves,  to  domestic  tranquillity  and  to  social  happiness,  no 
man  is  withheld  but  by  pride,  —  by  the  fear  of  being  insulted  by 
his  adversary,  or  despised  by  the  world. 

It  may  be  laid  down  as  an  unfailing  and  universal  axiom,  that 
"all  pride  is  abject  and  mean."  It  is  alwa}^  an  ignorant,  lazy,  or 
cowardly  acquiescence  in  a  false  appearance  of  excellence,  and 
proceeds,  not  from  consciousness  of  our  attainments,  but  insensi- 
bility of  our  wants. 

Nothing  can  be  great  which  is  not  right.  Nothing  which 
reason  condemns  can  be  suitable  to  the  dignity  of  the  human 
mind.  To  be  driven  by  external  motives  from  the  path  which 
our  own  heart  approves,  to  give  way  to  any  thing  but  conviction, 
to  suffer  the  opinion  of  others  to  rule  our  choice  or  overpower 
our  resolves,  is  to  submit  tamely  to  the  lowest  and  most  ig- 
nominious slavery,  and  to  resign  the  right  of  directing  our  own 
lives. 

The  utmost  excellence  at  which  humanity  can  arrive  is  a  con- 
stant and  determined  pursuit  of  virtue  without  regard  to  present 
dangers  or  advantages,  a  continual  reference  of  every  action  to 
the  Divine  Will,  an  habitual  appeal  to  everlasting  justice,  and  an 
unvaried  elevation  of  the  intellectual  eye  to  the  reward  which 
perseverance  only  can  obtain.  But  that  pride  which  many  who 


440  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

presume  to  boast  of  generous  sentiments  allow  to  regulate  their 
measures  has  nothing  nobler  in  view  than  the  approbation  of 
men,  —  of  beings  whose  superiority  we  are  under  no  obligation  to 
acknowledge,  and  who,  when  we  have  courted  them  with  the 
utmost  assiduity,  can  confer  no  valuable  or  permanent  reward; 
of  beings  who  ignorantly  judge  of  what  they  do  not  understand, 
or  partially  determine  what  they  never  have  examined,  and 
whose  sentence  is,  therefore,  of  no  weight  till  it  has  received  the 
ratification  of  our  own  conscience. 

He  that  can  descend  to  bribe  suffrages  like  these  at  the  price 
of  his  innocence,  he  that  can  suffer  the  delight  of  such  ac- 
clamations to  withhold  his  attention  from  the  commands  of  the 
universal  Sovereign,  has  little  reason  to  congratulate  himself  upon 
the  greatness  of  his  mind :  whenever  he  awakes  to  seriousness 
and  reflection,  he  must  become  despicable  in  his  own  eyes,  and 
shrink  with  shame  from  the  remembrance  of  his  cowardice  and 
folly. 

Of  him  that  hopes  to  be  forgiven,  it  is  indispensably  required 
that  he  forgive :  it  is,  therefore,  superfluous  to  urge  any  other 
motive.  On  this  great  duty,  eternity  is  suspended ;  and  to  him 
that  refuses  to  practice  it  the  throne  of  mercy  is  inaccessible,  and 
the  Saviour  of  the  world  has  been  born  in  vain.  Rambler. 


PARALLEL  BETWEEN  DRYDEN  AND   POPE. 

INTEGRITY  of  understanding,  and  nicety  of  discernment,  were 
not  allotted  in  a  less  proportion  to  Dryden  than .  to  Pope.  The 
rectitude  of  Dryden's  mind  was  sufficiently  shown  by  the  dismission 
of  his  poetical  prejudices,  and  the  rejection  of  unnatural  thoughts 
and  rugged  numbers.  But  Dryden  never  desired  to  apply  all 
the  judgment  that  he  had.  He  wrote,  and  professed  to  write, 
merely  for  the  people ;  and  when  he  pleased  others  he  contented 
himself.  He  spent  no  time  in  struggles  to  rouse  latent  powers ; 
he  never  attempted  to  make  that  better  which  was  already  good, 
nor  often  to  mend  what  he  must  have  known  to  be  faulty.  He 
wrote,  as  he  tells  us,  with  very  little  consideration  :  when  occasion 
or  necessity  called  upon  him,  he  poured  out  what  the  present 
moment  happened  to  supply,  and,  when  once  it  had  passed  the 
press,  ejected  it  from  his  mind ;  for,  when  he  had  110  pecuniary 
interest,  he  had  no  further  solicitude. 

Pope  was  not  content  to  satisfy  :  he  desired  to  excel,  and  there- 
fore always  endeavored  to  do  his  best.  He  did  not  court  the 
candor,  but  dared  the  judgment,  of  his  reader;  and,  expecting  no 
indulgence  from  others,  he  showed  none  to  himself.  He  examined 
lines  and  words  with  minute  and  punctilious  observation,  aud  re- 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON.  441 

touched  every  part  with  indefatigable  diligence,  till  he  had  left 
nothing  to  be  forgiven. 

For  this  reason,  he  kept  his  pieces  very  long  in  his  hands 
while  he  considered  and  reconsidered  them.  The  only  poems 
which  can  be  supposed  to  have  been  written  with  such  regard  to 
the  times  as  might  hasten  their  publication  were  the  two  satires 
of  "  Thirty-eight ;  "  of  which  Dodsley  told  me,  that  they  were 
brought  to  him  by  the  author  that  they  might  be  fairly  copied. 
'•Almost  every  line,"  he  said,  t(  was  then  written  twice  over.  I 
gave  him  a  clean  transcript,  which  he  sent  some  time  afterwards 
to  me  for  the  press,  with  almost  every  line  written  twice  over  a 
second  time." 

His  declaration  that  his  care  for  his  works  ceased  at  their 
publication  was  not  strictly  true.  His  parental  attention  never 
abandoned  them :  what  he  found  amiss  in  the  first  edition,  he 
silently  corrected  in  those  that  followed.  He  appears  to  have  re- 
vised "The  Iliad,"  and  freed  it  from  some  of  its  imperfections; 
and  "  The  Essay  on  Criticism  "  received  many  improvements  after 
its  first  appearance.  It  will  seldom  be  found  that  he  altered  with- 
out adding  clearness,  elegance,  or  vigor.  Pope  had,  perhaps,  the 
judgment  of  Drydeii;  but  Dryden  certainly  wanted  the  diligence 
of  Pope. 

In  acquired  knowledge,  the  superiority  must  be  allowed  to 
Dryden,  whose  ed'ucation  was  more  scholastic,  and  who,  before  he 
became  an  author,  had  been  allowed  more  time  for  study,  with 
better  means  of  information.  His  mind  has  a  larger  range,  and 
he  collects  his  images  and  illustrations  from  a  more  extensive 
circumference  of  science.  Dryden  knew  more  of  man  in  his 
general  nature ;  and  Pope,  in  his  local  manners.  The  notions 
of  Dryden  were  formed  by  comprehensive  speculation,  and  those 
of  Pope  by  minute  attention.  There  is  more  dignity  in  the 
knowledge  of  Dryden,  and  more  certainty  in  that  of  Pope. 

Poetry  was  not  the  sole  praise  of  either;  for  both  excelled 
likewise  in  prose  :  but  Pope  did  not  borrow  his  prose  from  his 
predecessor.  The  style  of  Dryden  is  capricious  and  varied :  that 
of  Pope  is  cautious  and  uniform.  Dryden  observes  the  motions  of 
his  own  mind  :  Pope  constrains  his  mind  to  his  own  rules  of 
composition.  Dryden  is  sometimes  vehement  and  rapid :  Pope  is 
always  smooth,  uniform,  and  gentle.  Dryden's  page  is  a  natural 
field,  rising  into  inequalities,  and  diversified  by  the  varied  exuber- 
ance of  abundant  vegetation:  Pope's  is  a  velvet  lawn,  shaven  by 
the  scythe,  and  leveled  by  the  roller. 

Of  genius,  —  that  power  which  constitutes  a  poet;  that  quality 
without  which  judgment  is  cold,  and  knowledge  is  inert;  that 
energy  which  collects,  combines,  amplifies,  and  animates,  —  the 
superiority  must,  with  some  hesitation,  be  allowed  to  Drydeu. 


442  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

It  is  not  to  be  inferred  that  of  this  poetical  vigor  Pope  had  only 
a  little  because  Dryden  had  more ;  for  every  other  writer  since 
Milton  must  give  place  to  Pope:  and  even  of  Dryden  it  must 
be  said,  that,  if  he  has  brighter  paragraphs,  he  has  not  better 
poems.  Dryden's  performances  were  always  hasty,  either  excited 
by  some  external  occasion,  or  extorted  by  domestic  necessity  :  he 
composed  without  consideration,  and  published  without  correction. 
What  his  mind  could  supply  at  call,  or  gather  in  one  excursion, 
was  all  that  he  sought,  and  all  that  he  gave.  The  dilatory 
caution  of  Pope  enabled  him  to  condense  his  sentiments,  to  mul- 
tiply his  images,  and  to  accumulate  all  that  study  might  produce, 
or  chance  might  supply.  If  the  flights  of  Dryden,  therefore,  are 
higher,  Pope  continues  longer  on  the  wing.  If  of  Dryden's  fire 
the  blaze  is  brighter,  of  Pope's  the  heat  is  more  regular  and 
constant.  Dryden  often  surpasses  expectation,  and  Pope  never 
falls  below  it.  Dryden  is  read  with  frequent  astonishment,  and 
Pope  with  perpetual  delight.  Life  of  Pope. 


SHAKSPEARE. 

SHAKSPEAKE  is,  above  all  writers,  —  at  least,  above  all  modern 
writers, — the  poet  of  Nature;  the  poet  that  holds  up  to  his 
readers  a  faithful  mirror  of  manners  and  of  life.  His  characters 
are  not  modified  by  the  customs  of  particular  places,  unpracticed 
by  the  rest  of  the  world,  by  the  peculiarities  of  studies  or  pro- 
fessions which  can  operate  but  upon  small  numbers,  or  by  the 
accidents  of  transient  fashions  or  temporary  opinions :  they  are 
the  genuine  progeny  of  common  humanity,  such  as  the  world  will 
always  supply,  and  observation  will  always  find.  His  persons  act 
and  speak  by  the  influence  of  those  general  passions  and  prin- 
ciples by  which  all  minds  are  agitated,  and  the  whole  system  of 
life  is  continued  in  motion.  In  the  writings  of  other  poets,  a 
character  is  too  often  an  individual :  in  those  of  Shakspeare,  it  is 
commonly  a  species. 

It  is  from  this  wide  extension  of  design  that  so  much  instruction 
is  derived.  It  is  this  which  fills  the  plays  of  Shakspeare  with 
practical  axioms  and  domestic  wisdom.  It  was  said  of  Euripides, 
that  every  verse  was  a  precept ;  and  it  may  be  said  of  Shakspeare, 
that  from  his  works  may  be  collected  a  system  of  civil  and  eco- 
nomical prudence.  Yet  his  real  power  is  not  shown  in  the  splendor 
of  particular  passages,  but  by  the  progress  of  his  fable  and  the 
tenor  of  his  dialogue;  and  he  that  tries  to  recommend  him  by 
select  quotations  will  succeed  like  the  pedant  in  Hierocles,  who, 
when  he  oifered  his  house  to  sale,  curried  a  brick  in  his  pocket  as 
a  specimen. 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON.  443 

It  will  not  easily  be  imagined  how  much  Shakspeare  excels  in 
accommodating  his  sentiments  to  real  life  but  by  comparing  him 
with  other  authors.  It  was  observed  of  the  ancient  schools  of 
declamation,  that,  the  more  diligently  they  were  frequented,  the 
more  was  the  student  disqualified  for  the  world,  because  he  found 
nothing  there  which  he  should  ever  meet  in  any  other  place. 
The  same  remark  may  be  applied  to  every  stage  but  that  of 
Shakspeare.  The  theater,  when  it  is  under  any  other  direction, 
is  peopled  by  such  characters  as  were  never  seen,  conversing  in  a 
language  which  was  never  heard,  upon  topics  which  will  never 
arise  in  the  commerce  of  mankind.  But  the  dialogue  of  this 
author  is  often  so  evidently  determined  by  the  incident  which 
produces  it,  and  is  pursued  with  so  much  ease  and  simplicity,  that 
it  seems  scarcely  to  claim  the  merit  of  fiction,  but  to  have  been 
gleaned  by  diligent  selection  out  of  common  conversation  and 
common  occurrences. 

Upon  every  other  stage,  the  universal  agent  is  love,  by  whose 
power  all  good  and  evil  is  distributed,  and  every  action  quickened 
or  retarded.  To  bring  a  lover,  a  lady,  and  a  rival,  into  the  fable  ; 
to  entangle  them  in  contradictory  obligations,  perplex  them  with 
oppositions  of  interest,  and  harass  them  with  violence  of  desires 
inconsistent  with  each  other;  to  make  them  meet  in  rapture,  and 
part  in  agony  ;  to  fill  their  mouths  with  hyperbolical  joy  and  out- 
rageous sorrow ;  to  distress  them  as  nothing  human  ever  was 
distressed,  to  deliver  them  as  nothing  human  was  ever  delivered, — 
is  the  business  of  a  modern  dramatist.  For  this,  probability  is 
violated,  life  is  misrepresented,  and  language  is  depraved.  But 
love  is  only  one  of  many  passions ;  and,  as  it  has  no  great  in- 
fluence upon  the  sum  of  life,  it  has  little  operation  in  the  dramas 
of  a  poet  who  caught  his  ideas  from  the  living  world,  and  ex- 
hibited only  what  he  saw  before  him.  He  knew  that  any  other 
passion,  as  it  was  regular  or  exorbitant,  was  a  cause  of  happiness 
or  calamity. 

This,  therefore,  is  the  praise  of  Shakspeare,  — that  his  drama 
is  the  mirror  of  life  ;  that  he  who  has  mazed  his  imagination  in 
following  the  phantoms  which  other  writers  raise  up  before  him 
may  here  be  cured  of  his  delirious  ecstasies  by  reading  human 
sentiments  in  human  language,  by  scenes  from  which  a  hermit 
may  estimate  the  transactions  of  the  world,  and  a  confessor  pre- 
dict the  progress  of  the  passions. 

Shakspeare's  plays  are  not,  in  the  rigorous  and  critical  sense, 
either  tragedies  or  comedies,  but  compositions  of  a  distinct  kind, 
exhibiting  the  real  state  of  sublunary  nature,  which  partakes  of 
good  and  evil,  joy  and  sorrow,  mingled  with  endless  variety  of 
proportion  and  innumerable  modes  of  combination,  and  express- 
ing the  course  of  the  world,  in  which  the  loss  of  one  is  the  gain 


444  ENGLISH   LITERATURE^ 

of  another;  in  which,  at  the  same  time,  the  reveler  is  hasting  to 
liis  wine,  and  the  mourner  burying  his  friend  ;  in  which  the 
malignity  of  one  is  sometimes  defeated  by  the  frolic  of  another ; 
and  many  mischiefs  and  many  benefits  are  done  and  hindered 
without  design. 

Shakspeare  has  united  the  powers  of  exciting  laughter  and 
sorrow,  not  only  in  one  mind,  but  in  one  composition.  Almost 
all  his  plays  are  divided  between  serious  and  ludicrous  characters, 
and,  in  the  successive  evolutions  of  the  design,  sometimes  produce 
seriousness  and  sorrow,  and  sometimes  levity  and  laughter. 

That  this  is  a  practice  contrary  to  the  rules  of  criticism  will  be 
readily  allowed  ;  but  there  is  always  an  appeal  open  from  criticism 
to  nature.  The  end  of  writing  is  to  instruct ;  the  end  of  poetry 
is  to  instruct  by  pleasing.  That  the  mingled  drama  may  convey 
all  the  instruction  of  tragedy  or  corned}7  can  not  be  denied,  because 
it  includes  both  in  its  alternations  of  exhibition,  and  approaches 
nearer  than  either  to  the  appearance  of  life  by  showing  how 
great  machinations  and  slender  designs  may  promote  or  obviate 
one  another,  and  the  high  and  the  low  co-operate  in  the  general 
system  by  unaA'oidable  concatenation. 

The  force  of  his  comic  scenes  has  suffered  little  diminution 
from  the  changes  made  by  a  century  and  a  half  in  manners  or 
in  words.  As  his  personages  act  upon  principles  arising  from 
genuine  passion  very  little  modified  by  particular  forms,  their 
pleasures  and  vexations  are  communicable  to  all  times  and  to  all 
places  :  they  are  natural,  and  therefore  durable.  The  adventitious 
peculiarities  of  personal  habits  are  only  superficial  dyes,  bright 
and  pleasing  for  a  little  while,  yet  soon  fading  to  a  dim  tint,  with- 
out any  remains  of  former  luster :  but  the  discriminations  of  true 
passion  are  the  colors  of  Nature ;  they  pervade  the  whole  mass, 
and  can  only  perish  with  the  body  that  exhibits  them.  The 
accidental  compositions  of  heterogeneous  modes  are  dissolved  by 
the  chance  which  combined  them  ;  but  the  uniform  simplicity  of 
primitive  qualities  neither  admits  increase,  nor  suffers  decay.  The 
sand  heaped  by  one  flood  is  scattered  by  another ;  but  the  rock 
always  continues  in  its  place.  The  stream  of  time,  which  is  con- 
tin  ii'iil  ,j  truxhinri  the  dissoluble  fabrics  of  other  poets,  passes 
without  injury  by  the  adamant  of  Shakspeare. 

Preface  to  Shakspeare. 


DAVID   HUME.  445 

DAVID    HUME. 

1711-1776. 

Famous  author  of  "  History  of  England ; "  Moral  and  Political  Essays.  Style  re- 
markable for  simplicity  of  expression  and  logical  clearness.  We  select  from  his 
writings  a  topic,  not  best  illustrating  his  power  and  style,  but  as  one  deserving  the 
pupil's  attention. 

OF   THE  STANDARD    OF   TASTE. 

OXE  obvious  cause  why  many  feel  not  the  proper  sentiment  of 
beauty  is  the  want  of  that  delicacy  of  imagination  which  is  requi- 
site to  convey  a  sensibility  of  those  finer  emotions.  This  delicacy 
every  one  pretends  to  :  every  one  talks  of  it,  and  would  reduce 
every  kind  of  taste  or  sentiment  to  its  standard.  But,  as  our 
intention  in  this  essay  is  to  mingle  some  light  of  the  understand- 
ing with  the  feelings  of  sentiment,  it  will  be  proper  to  give  a 
more  accurate  definition  of  delicacy  than  has  hitherto  been  at- 
tempted. And,  not  to  draw  our  philosophy  from  too  profound  a 
source,  we  shall  have  recourse  to  a  noted  story  in  "Don  Quixote." 

"  It  is  with  good  reason,"  says  Sancho  to  the  squire  with  the 
great  nose,  "  that  I  pretend  to  have  a  judgment  in  wine :  this  is 
a  quality  hereditary  in  our  family.  Two  of  my  kinsmen  were 
once  called  to  give  their  opinion  of  a  hogshead  which  was  sup- 
posed to  be  excellent,  being  old  and  of  a  good  vintage.  One  of 
them  tastes  it,  considers  it,  and,  after  mature  reflection,  pro- 
nounces the  wine  to  be  good,  were  it  not  for  a  small  taste  of 
leather  which  he  perceived  in  it.  The  other,  after  using  the 
same  precautions,  gives  also  his  verdict  in  favor  of  the  wine,  but 
with  the  reserve  of  a  taste  of  iron  which  he  could  easily  distin- 
guish. You  can  not  imagine  how  much  they  were  both  ridiculed 
for  their  judgment.  But  who  laughed  in  the  end  ?  On  empty-r 
ing  the  hogshead,  there  was  found  at  the  bottom  an  old  key  with 
a  leathern  thong  tied  to  it." 

The  great  resemblance  between  mental  and  bodily  taste  will 
easily  teach  us  to  apply  this  story.  Though  it  be  certain  that 
beauty  and  deformity,  more  than  sweet  and  bitter,  are  not  quali- 
ties in  objects,  but  belong  entirely  to  the  sentiment,  internal  or 
external,  it  must  be  allowed  that  there  are  certain  qualities  in 
objects,  which  are  fitted  by  nature  to  produce  those  particular 
feelings.  Now,  as  these  qualities  may  be  found  in  a  small  de- 
gree, or  may  be  mixed  and  confounded  with  each  other,  it  often 
happens  that  the  taste  is  not  affected  with  such  minute  qualities, 
or  is  not  able  to  distinguish  all  the  particular  flavors  amidst  the 
disorder  in  which  they  are  presented.  Where  the  organs  are  so 


446  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

fine  as  to  allow  nothing  to  escape  them,  and  at  the  same  time  so 
exact  as  to  perceive  every  ingredient  in  the  composition,  —  this 
we  call  delicacy  of  taste,  whether  we  employ  these  terms  in  the 
literal  or  metaphorical  sense.  HeVe,  then,  the  general  rules  of 
beauty  are  of  use,  being  drawn  from  established  morals,  and 
from  the  observation  of  what  pleases  or  displeases  when  pre- 
sented singly  and  in  a  high  degree ;  and  if  the  same  qualities, 
in  a  continued  composition  and  in  a  smaller  degree,  affect  not  the 
organs  with  a  sensible  delight  or  uneasiness,  we  exclude  the  per- 
son from  all  pretensions  to  this  delicacy.  To  produce  these  gen- 
eral rules  or  avowed  patterns  of  composition  is  like  finding  the 
key  with  the  leathern  thong,  which  justified  the  verdict  of  San- 
cho's  kinsmen,  and  confounded  those  pretended  judges  who  had 
condemned  them.  Though  the  hogshead  had  never  been  emp- 
tied, the  taste  of  the  one  was  still  equally  delicate,  and  that  of 
the  other  still  equally  dull  and  languid ;  but  it  would  have  been 
more  difficult  to  have  proved  the  superiority  of  the  former  to 
the  conviction  of  every  bystander.  In  like  manner,  though 
the  beauties  of  writing  had  never  been  methodized,  or  reduced  to 
general  principles,  though  no  excellent  models  had  ever  been  ac- 
knowledged, the  different  degrees  of  taste  would  still  have  sub- 
sisted, and  the  judgment  of  one  man  been  preferable  to  that  of 
another ;  but  it  would  not  have  been  so  easy  to  silence  the  bad 
critic,  who  might  always  insist  upon  his  particular  sentiment,  and 
refuse  to  submit  to  his  antagonist.  But  when  we  show  him  an 
avowed  principle  of  art;  when  we  illustrate  this  principle  by 
examples  whose  operation,  from  his  own  particular  taste,  he  ac- 
knowledges to  be  conformable  to  the  principle ;  when  we  prove 
that  the  same  principle  may  be  applied  to  the  present  case,  where 
he  did  not  perceive  or  feel  its  influence, — he  must  conclude,  upon 
the  whole,  that  the  fault  lies  in  himself,  and  that  he  wants  the 
delicacy  which  is  requisite  to  make  him  sensible  of  every  beauty 
and  every  blemish  in  any  composition  or  discourse. 

It  is  acknowledged  to  be  the  perfection  of  every  sense  or  fac- 
ulty, to  perceive  with  exactness  its  most  minute  objects,  and  allow 
nothing  to  escape  its  notice  and  observation.  The  smaller  the 
objects  are  which  become  sensible  to  the  eye,  the  finer  is  that 
organ,  and  the  more  elaborate  its  make  and  composition.  A  good 
palate  is  not  tried  by  strong  flavors,  but  by  a  mixture  of  small 
ingredients,  where  we  are  still  sensible  of  each  part,  notwithstand- 
ing its  minuteness,  and  its  confusion  with  the  rest.  In  like  man- 
ner, a  quick  and  acute  perception  of  beauty  and  deformity  must 
be  the  perfection  of  our  mental  taste ;  nor  can  a  man  be  satisfied 
with  himself  while  he  suspects  that  any  excellence  or  blemish  in 
a  discourse  has  passed  him  unobserved.  In  this  case,  the  perfec- 
tion of  the  man,  and  the  perfection  of  the  sense  or  feeling,  are 


DAVID  HUME.  447 

found  to  be  united.  A  very  delicate  palate,  on  many  occasions, 
may  be  a  great  inconvenience  both  to  a  man  himself  and  to  his 
friends ;  but  a  delicate  taste  of  wit  or  beauty  must  always  be  a 
desirable  quality,  because  it  is  the  source  of  all  the  finest  and 
most  innocent  enjoyments  of  which  human  nature  is  susceptible. 
In  this  decision,  the  sentiments  of  all  mankind  are  agreed. 
Wherever  you  can  ascertain  a  delicacy  of  taste,  it  is  sure  to  meet 
writh  approbation ;  and  the  best  way  of  ascertaining  it  is  to  appeal 
to  those  models  and  principles  which  have  been  established  by  the 
uniform  consent  and  experience  of  nations  and  ages. 

But,  though  there  be  naturally  a  wide  difference  in  point  of 
delicacy  between  one  person  and  another,  nothing  tends  further 
to  increase  and  improve  this  talent  than  practice  in  a  particular 
art,  and  the  frequent  survey  or  contemplation  of  a  particular  spe- 
cies of  beauty.  When  objects  of  any  kind  are  first  presented  to 
the  eye  or  imagination,  the  sentiment  which  attends  them  is  ob- 
scure and  confused,  and  the  mind  is,  in  a  great  measure,  incapable 
of  pronouncing  concerning  their  merits  or  defects.  The  taste  can 
not  perceive  the  several  excellences  of  the  performance  ;  much 
less  distinguish  the  particular  character  of  each  excellency,  and 
ascertain  its  quality  and  degree.  If  it  pronounce  the  whole  in 
general  to  be  beautiful  or  deformed,  it  is  the  utmost  that  can  be 
expected ;  and  even  this  judgment  a  person  so  unpracticed  will 
be  apt  to  deliver  with  great  hesitation  and  reserve.  But  allow 
him  to  acquire  experience  in  those  objects,  his  feeling  becomes 
more  exact  and  nice.  He  not  only  perceives  the  beauties  and 
defects  of  each  part,  but  marks  the  distinguishing  species  of  each 
quality,  and  assigns  it  suitable  praise  or  blame.  A  clear  and  dis- 
tinct sentiment  attends  him  through  the  whole  survey  of  the 
objects;  and  he  discerns  that  very  degree  and  kind  of  approbation 
or  displeasure  which  each  part  is  naturally  fitted  to  produce.  The 
mist  dissipates  which  seemed  formerly  to  hang  over  the  object. 
The  organ  acquires  greater  perfection  in  its  operations,  and  can 
pronounce,  without  danger  of  mistake,  concerning  the  merits  of 
every  performance.  In  a  word,  the  same  address  and  dexterity 
which  practice  gives  to  the  execution  of  any  work  is  acquired  by 
the  same  means  in  the  judging  of  it. 

So  advantageous  is  practice  to  the  discernment  of  beauty,  that, 
before  we  can  give  judgment  on  any  work  of  importance,  it  will 
even  be  requisite  that  that  very  individual  performance  be  more 
than  once  perused  by  us,  and  be  surveyed  in  different  lights  with 
attention  and  deliberation.  There  is  a  nutter  or  hurry  of  thought 
which  attends  the  first  perusal  of  any  piece,  and  which  confounds 
the  genuine  sentiment  of  beauty.  The  relation  of  the  parts  is 
not  discerned ;  the  true  characters  of  style  are  little  distin- 
guished ;  the  several  perfections  and  defects  seem  wrapped  up 


448  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

in  a  species  of  confusion,  and  present  themselves  indistinctly  to 
the  imagination  :  not  to  mention  that  there  is  a  species  of  beau- 
fy,  which,  as  it  is  florid  and  superficial,  pleases  at  first,  but,  being 
found  incompatible  with  a  just  expression  either  of  reason  or  pas- 
sion, soon  palls  upon  the  taste,  and  is  then  rejected  with  disdain; 
at  least,  rated  at  a  much  lower  value. 

It  is  impossible  to  continue  in  the  practice  of  contemplating 
any  order  of  beauty  without  being  frequently  obliged  to  form  com- 
parisons between  the  several  species  and  degrees  of  excellence, 
and  estimating  their  proportion  to  each  other.  A  man  who  lias 
had  no  opportunity  of  comparing  the  different  kinds  of  beauty  is 
indeed  totally  unqualified  to  pronounce  an  opinion  with  regard  to 
any  object  presented  to  him.  By  comparison  alone,  we  fix  the 
epithets  of  praise  or  blame,  and  learn  how  to  assign  the  due  de- 
gree of  each.  The  coarsest  daubing  contains  a  certain  luster  of 
colors,  and  exactness  of  imitation,  which  are  so  far  beauties,  and 
would  affect  the  mind  of  a  peasant  or  Indian  with  the  highest 
admiration.  The  most  vulgar  ballads  .are  not  entirely  destitute 
of  harmony  or  nature ;  and  none  but  a  person  familiarized  to 
superior  beauties  would  pronounce  their  numbers  harsh,  or  nar- 
ration uninteresting.  A  great  inferiority  of  beauty  gives  pain  to 
a  person  conversant  in  the  highest  excellence  of  the  kind,  and  is, 
for  that  reason,  pronounced  a  deformity  ;  as  the  most  finished 
object  with  which  we  are  acquainted  is  naturally  supposed  to 
have  reached  the  pinnacle  of  perfection,  and  to  be  entitled  to  the 
highest  applause.  One  accustomed  to  see  and  examine  and 
weigh  the  several  performances  admired  in  different  ages  and  na- 
tions can  alone  rate  the  merits  of  a  work  exhibited  to  his  view, 
and  assign  its  proper  rank  among  the  productions  of  genius. 

But,  to  enable  a  critic  the  more  fully  to  execute  this  under- 
taking, he  must  preserve  his  mind  free  from  all"  prejudice,  and 
allow  nothing  to  enter  into  his  consideration  but  the  very  object 
which  is  submitted  to  his  examination.  We  may  observe,  that 
every  work  of  art,  in  order  to  produce  its  due  effect  on  the  mind, 
must  be  surveyed  in  a  certain  point  of  view,  and  can  not  be  fully 
relished  by  persons  whose  situation,  real  or  imaginary,  is  not 
conformable  to  that  which  is  required  by  the  performance.  An 
orator  addresses  himself  to  a  particular  audience,  and  must  have 
a  regard  to  their  particular  genius,  interests,  opinions,  passions, 
and  prejudices ;  otherwise  he  hopes  in  vain  to  govern  their  resolu- 
tions, and  inflame  their  affections.  Should  they  even  have  enter- 
tained some  prepossessions  against  him,  however  unreasonable,  he 
must  not  overlook  this  disadvantage,  but,  before  he  enters  upon 
the  subject,  must  endeavor  to  conciliate  their  affection,  and  ac- 
quire their  good  graces.  A  critic  of  a  different  age  or  nation  who 
should  peruse  this  discourse  must  have  all  these  circumstances  in 


DAVID   HUME.  449 

his  eye,  and  must  place  himself  in  the  same  situation  as  the  audi- 
ence, in  order  to  form  a  true  judgment  of  the  oration.  In  like 
manner,  when  any  work  is  addressed  to  the  public,  though  I 
should  have  a  friendship  or  enmity  with  the  author,  I  must  depart 
from  this  situation,  and,  considering  myself  as  a  man  in  general, 
forget,  if  possible,  my  individual  being  and  my  peculiar  circum- 
stances. A  person  influenced  by  prejudice  complies  not  with  this 
condition,  but  obstinately  maintains  his  natural  position  without 
placing  himself  in  that  point  of  view  which  the  performance  sup- 
poses. If  the  work  be  addressed  to  persons  of  a  different  age  or 
nation,  he  makes  no  allowance  for  their  peculiar  views  and  preju- 
dices, but,  full  of  the  manners  of  his  own  age  and  country,  rashly 
condemns  what  seemed  admirable  in  the  eyes  of  those  for  whom 
alone  the  discourse  was  calculated.  If  the  work  be  executed  for 
the  public,  he  never  sufficiently  enlarges  his  comprehension,  or 
forgets  his  interest  as  a  friend  or  enemy,  as  a  rival  or  commenta- 
tor. By  this  means,  his  sentiments  are  perverted;  nor  have  the 
same  beauties  and  blemishes  the  same  influence  upon  him  as  if 
he  had  imposed  a  proper  violence  on  his  imagination,  and  had 
forgotten  himself  for  a  moment.  So  far,  his  taste  evidently  de- 
parts from  the  true  standard,  and,  of  consequence,  loses  all  credit 
and  authority. 

It  is  well  known,  that,  in  all  questions  submitted  to  the  under- 
standing, prejudice  is  destructive  of  sound  judgment,  and  perverts 
all  operations  of  the  intellectual  faculties  :  it  is  no  less  contrary 
to  good  taste  ;  nor  has  it  less  influence  to  corrupt  our  sentiment 
of  beauty.  It  belongs  to  good  sense  to  check  its  influence  in  both 
cases ;  and  in  this  respect,  as  well  as  in  many  others,  reason,  if 
not  an  essential  part  of  taste,  is  at  least  requisite  to  the  operations 
of  this  latter  faculty.  In  all  the  nobler  productions  of  genius, 
there  is  a  mutual  relation  and  correspondence  of  parts ;  nor  can 
either  the  beauties  or  blemishes  be  perceived  by  him  whose 
thought  is  not  capacious  enough  to  comprehend  all  those  parts, 
and  compare  them  with  each  other,  in  order  to  perceive  the  con- 
sistence and  uniformity  of  the  whole.  Every  work  of  art  has  also 
a  certain  end  or  purpose  for  which  it  is  calculated,  and  is  to  be 
deemed  more  or  less  perfect  as  it  is  more  or  less  fitted  to  attain 
this  end.  The  object  of  eloquence  is  to  persuade ;  of  history,  to 
instruct;  of  poetry,  to  please  by  means  of  the  passions  and  the  im- 
agination. These  ends  we  must  carry  constantly  in  our  view 
when  we  peruse  any  performance ;  and  we  must  be  able  to  judge 
how  far  the  means  employed  are  adapted  to  their  respective  pur- 
poses. Besides,  every  kind  of  composition,  even  the  most  poeti- 
cal, is  nothing  but  a  chain  of  propositions  and  reasonings ;  not 
always,  indeed,  the  justest  and  most  exact,  but  still  plausible  and 
specious,  however  disguised  by  the  coloring  of  the  imagination. 
29 


450  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

The  persons  introduced  in  tragedy  and  epic  poetry  must  be  rep- 
resented as  reasoning  and  thinking  and  concluding  and  acting 
suitably  to  their  character  and  circumstances  :  and,  without  judg- 
ment as  well  as  taste  and  invention,  a  poet  can  never  hope  to 
succeed  in  so  delicate  an  undertaking  ;  not  to  mention  that  the 
same  excellence  of  faculties  which  contributes  to  the  improvement 
of  reason,  the  same  clearness  of  conception,  the  same  exactness  of 
distinction,  the  same  vivacity  of  apprehension,  are  essential  to  the 
operations  of  true  taste,  and  are  its  infallible  concomitants.  It 
seldom  or  never  happens  that  a  man  of  sense  who  has  experience 
in  any  art  can  not  judge  of  its  beauty;  and  it  is  no  less  rare  to 
meet  with  a  man  who  has  a  just  taste  without  a  sound  under- 
standing. 

Thus,  though  the  principles  of  taste  be  universal,  and  nearly,  if 
not  entirely,  the  same  in  all  men,  yet  few  are  qualified  to  give 
judgment  on  any  work  of  art,  or  establish  their  own  sentiments 
as  the  standard  of  beauty.  The  organs  of  internal  sensation  are 


seldom  so  perfect  as  to  allow  the  general  principles  their  full  play, 
and  produce  a  feeling  correspondent  to  those  principles.  They 
either  labor  under  some  defect,  or  are  vitiated  by  some  disorder, 
and  by  that  means  excite  a  sentiment  which  may  be  pronounced 
erroneous.  When  the  critic  has  no  delicacy,  he  judges  without 
any  distinction,  and  is  only  affected  by  the  grosser  and  more  pal- 
pable qualities  of  the  object  :  the  finer  touches  pass  unnoticed  and 
disregarded.  Where  he  is  not  aided  by  practice,  his  verdict  is 
attended  with  confusion  and  hesitation.  Where  no  comparison 
lias  been  employed,  the  most  frivolous  beauties,  such  as  rather 
merit  the  name  of  defects,  are  the  object  of  his  admiration. 
Where  he  lies  under  the  influence  of  prejudice,  all  his  natural 
sentiments  are  perverted.  Where  good  sense  is  wanting,  he  is 
not  qualified  to  discern  the  beauties  of  design  and  reasoning 
which  are  the  highest  and  most  excellent.  Under  some  or  other 
of  these  imperfections,  the  generality  of  men  labor  ;  and  hence  a 
true  judge  in  the  finer  arts  is  observed,  even  during  the  most  pol- 
ished ages,  to  be  so  rare  a  character.  Strong  sense,  united  to  deli- 
cate sentiment,  improved  by  practice,  perfected  by  comparison, 
and  cleared  of  all  prejudice,  can  alone  entitle  critics  to  this  valua- 
ble character  ;  and  the  joint  verdict  of  such,  wherever  they  are  to 
be  found,  is  the  true  standard  of  taste  and  beauty. 

But  where  are  such  critics  to  be  found  ?  By  what  marks  are 
they  to  be  known?  How  distinguish  them  from  pretenders? 
These  questions  are  embarrassing,  and  seem  to  throw  us  back 
into  the  same  uncertainty  from  which,  during  the  course  of  this 
essay,  we  have  endeavored  to  extricate  ourselves. 

But,  if  we  consider  the  matter  aright,  these  are  questions  of 
fact,  not  of  sentiment.  Whether  any  particular  person  be  en- 


DAVID   HUME.  451 

dowed  with  good  sense  and  a  delicate  imagination,  free  from 
prejudice,  may  often  be  the  subject  of  dispute,  and  be  liable  to 
great  discussion  and  inquiry ;  but  that  such  a  character  is  valua- 
ble and  estimable  will  be  agreed  in  by  all  mankind.  Where  these 
doubts  occur,  men  can  do  no  more  than  in  other  disputable  ques- 
tions which  are  submitted  to  the  understanding:  they  must  pro- 
duce the  best  arguments  that  their  invention  suggests  to  them ; 
they  must  acknowledge  a  true  and  decisive  standard  to  exist 
somewhere,  —  to  wit,  real  existence  and  matter  of  fact ;  and  they 
must  have  indulgence  to  such  as  differ  from  them  in  their  appeals 
to  this  standard.  It  is  sufficient  for  our  present  purpose  if  we 
have  proved  that  the  taste  of  all  individuals  is  not  upon  an  equal 
footing,  and  that  some  men  in  general,  however  difficult  to  be  par- 
ticularly pitched  upon,  will  be  acknowledged  by  universal  senti- 
ment to  have  a  preference  above  others. 

But,  in  reality,  the  difficulty  of  finding,  even  in  particulars,  the 
standard  of  taste,  is  not  so  great  as  it  is  represented.  Though  in 
speculation  we  may  readily  allow  a  certain  criterion  in  science, 
and  deny  it  in  sentiment,  the  matter  is  found,  in  practice,  to  be 
much  more  hard  to  ascertain  in  the  former  case  than  in  the  latter. 
Theories  of  abstract  philosophy,  systems  of  profound  theology,  have 
prevailed  during  one  age :  in  a  successive  period,  these  have  been 
universally  exploded;  their  absurdity  has  been  detected;  other 
theories  and  systems  have  supplied  their  place,  which  again  gave 
place  to  their  successors ;  and  nothing  has  been  experienced  more 
liable  to  the  revolutions  of  chance  and  fashion  than  these  pre- 
tended decisions  of  science.  The  case  is  not  the  same  with  the 
beauties  of  eloquence  and  poetry.  Just  expressions  of  passion  and 
nature  are  sure,  after  a  little  time,  to  gain  public  applause,  which 
they  maintain  for  ever.  Aristotle  and  Plato  and  Epicurus  and 
Descartes  may  successively  yield  to  each  other ;  but  Terence 
and  Virgil  maintain  a  universal,  undisputed  empire  over  the 
minds  of  men.  The  abstract  philosophy  of  Gicero  has  lost  its 
credit :  the  vehemence  of  his  oratory  is  still  the  object  of  our  ad- 
miration. Though  men  of  delicate  taste  be  rare,  they  are  easily 
to  be  distinguished  in  society  by  the  soundness  of  their  under- 
standing and  the  superiority  of  their  faculties  above  the  rest  of 
mankind.  The  ascendant  which  they  acquire  gives  a  prevalence 
to  that  lively  approbation  with  which  they  receive  any  produc- 
tions of  genius,  and  renders  it  generally  predominant.  Many 
men,  when  left  to  themselves,  have  but  a  faint  and  dubious  per- 
ception of  beauty,  who  yet  are  capable  of  relishing  any  fine  stroke 
which  is  pointed  out  to  them.  Every  convert  to  the  admiration 
of  the  real  poet  or  orator  is  the  cause  of  some  new  conversion. 
And,  though  prejudices  may  prevail  for  a  time,  they  never  unite 
in  celebrating  any  rival  to  the  true  genius,  but  yield  at  last  to  the 


452  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

force  and  just  sentiment.  Thus,  though  a  civilized  nation  may 
easily  be  mistaken  in  the  choice  of  their  admired  philosopher, 
they  never  have  been  found  long  to  err  in  their  affection  for  a 
favorite  epic  or  tragic  author.  But  notwithstanding  all  our  en- 
deavors to  fix  a  standard  of  taste,  and  reconcile  the  discordant 
apprehensions  of  men,  there  still  remain  two  sources  of  variation, 
which  are  not  sufficient,  indeed,  to  confound  all  the  boundaries  of 
beauty  and  deformity,  but  will  often  serve  to  produce  a  difference 
in  the  degrees  of  our  approbation  or  blame.  The  one  is  the  dif- 
ferent humors  of  particular  men;  the  other,  the  particular  man- 
ners and  opinions  of  our  age  and  country.  The  general  principles 
of  taste  are  uniform  in  human  nature :  where  men  vary  in  their 
judgments,  some  defect  or  perversion  in  the  faculties  may  com- 
monly be  remarked,  proceeding  either  from  prejudice,  from  want 
of  practice,  or  want  of  delicac3T ;  and  there  is  just  reason  for  ap- 
proving one  taste,  and  condemning  another.  But  where  there  is 
such  a  diversity  in  the  internal  frame  or  external  situation  as  is 
entirely  blameless  on  both  sides,  and  leaves  no  room  to  give  one 
the  preference  above  the  other,  —  in  that  case  a  certain  degree  of 
diversity  in  judgment  is  unavoidable,  and  we  seek  in  vain  for  a 
standard  by  which  we  can  reconcile  the  contrary  sentiments. 


BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN. 

1706-1790. 

Distinguished  philosopher  and  statesman ;  born  in  Boston,  Mass.  He  has  Ibeen 
called,  in  an  age  of  great  men,  "the  greatest  diplomatist  of  the  eighteenth  century." 
"  He  never  spoke  a  word  too  soon  ;  he  never  spoke  a  word  too  late;  he  never  spoke 
a  word  too  much ;  he  never  failed  to  speak  the  right  word  in  the  right  place." 


THE    WAT    TO    WEALTH. 

COURTEOUS  reader,  I  have  heard  that  nothing  gives  an  author 
so  great  pleasure  as  to  find  his  works  respectfully  quoted  by 
others.  Judge,  then,  how  much  I  must  have  been  gratified  by  an 
incident  I  am  going  to  relate  to  you.  I  stopped  my  horse  lately 
where  a  great  number  of  people  were  collected  at  an  auction  of 
merchants'  goods.  The  hour  of  the  sale  not  being  come,  they 
were  conversing  on  the  badness  of  the  times;  and  one  of  the 
company  called  to  a  plain,  clean  old  man  with  white  locks, 
"  Pray,  Father  Abraham,  what  think  you  of  the  times  ?  Will 
not  these  heavy  taxes  quite  ruin  the  country  ?  How  shall  we 


BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN.  453 

ever  bo  able  to  pay  them  ?  What  would  you  advise  us  to  ? " 
father  Abraham  stood  up,  and  replied,  "  If  you  would  have  my 
advice,  I  will  give  it  you  in  short ;  for  A  word  to  the  wise  is 
enough,  as  Poor  Richard  says."  They  joined  in  desiring  him 
to  speak  his  mind ;  and,  gathering  round  him,  he  proceeded  as 
follows  :  — 

"  Friends,"  said  he,  "  the  taxes  are  indeed  very  heavy  :  and,  if 
those  laid  on  by  the  government  were  the  only  ones  we  had  to 
pay,  we  might  more  easily  discharge  them  ;  but  we  have  many 
others,  and  much  more  grievous  to  some  of  us.  We  are  taxed 
twice  as  much  by  our  idleness,  three  times  as  much  by  our  pride, 
and  four  times  as  much  by  our  folly ;  and  from  these  taxes  the 
commissioners  can  not  ease  or  deliver  us  by  allowing  an  abate- 
ment. However,  let  us  hearken  to  good  advice,  and  something 
may  be  done  for  us.  .  God  helps  them  that  help  themselves ;  as  Poor 
Richard  says. 

"  It  would  be  thought  a  hard  government  that  should  tax  its 
people  one-tenth  part  of  their  time  to  be  emploj-ed  in  its  service ; 
but  idleness  taxes  many  of  us  much  more.  Sloth,  by  bringing 
on  diseases,  absolutely  shortens  life.  Sloth,  like  mist,  consumes 
faster  than  labor  wears  y  while  the  used  key  is  always  bright, 
as  Poor  Richard  says.  But  dost  thou  love  life,  then  do  not 
squander  time  ;  for  that  is  the  stuff  life  is  made  of,  as  Poor 
Richard  says.  How  much  more  than  is  necessary  do  we  spend  in 
sleep!  forgetting  that  The  sleeping  fox  catches  no  poultry,  and  that 
There  will  be  sleeping  enough  in  the  grave,  as  Poor  Richard  says. 

"  If  time  be  of  all  things  the  most  precious,  wasting  time  must 
be,  as  Poor  Richard  says,  the  greatest  prodigality :  since,  as  he 
elsewhere  tells  us,  Lost  time  is  never  found  again  /  and  what  ive 
call  time  enough  always  proves  little  enough.  Let  us,  then,  up 
and  be  doing,  and  doing  to  the  purpose  :  so  by  diligence  shall  we 
do  more  with  less  perplexity. 

"  But  with  our  industry  we  must  likewise  be  steady,  settled, 
and  careful,  and  oversee  our  own  affairs  with  our  own  eyes, 
and  not  trust  too  much  to  others ;  for  Three  removes  are  as 
bad  as  a  fire.  And  again  :  Keep  thy  shop,  and  thy  shop  will  keep 
thee.  And  again  :  If  you  would  have  your  business  done,  go  •  if 
not,  send. 

"  So  much  for  industry,  my  friends,  and  attention  to  one's  own 
business ;  but  to  these  we  must  add  frugality  if  we  would  make 
our  industry  more  certainly  successful.  A  man  may,  if  he  knows 
not  how  to  save  as  he  gets,  keep  his  nose  all  his  life  to  the  grind- 
stone, and  die  not  worth  a  groat  at  last.  A  fat  kitchen  makes  a 
lean  will. 

"  Away,  then,  with  your  expensive  follies,  and  you  will  not  then 
have  so  much  cause  to  complain  of  hard  times,  heavy  taxes,  and 
chargeable  families. 


454  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

"  And  further :  Wliat  maintains  one  vice  would  bring  irp  two 
children.  You  may  think,  perhaps,  that  a  little  tea,  or  a  little 
punch  now  and  then,  diet  a  little  more  costly,  clothes  a  little  finer, 
and  a  little  entertainment  now  and  then,  can  be  no  great  matter ; 
but  remember,  Many  a  little  makes  a  miclde.  Beware  of  little 
expenses:  A  small  leak  ivill  sink  a  great  ship,  as  Poor  Richard 
says.  And  again :  Who  dainties  love  shall  beggars  prove  ;  and, 
moreover,  Fools  make  feasts,  and  wise  men  eat  them. 

"  Here  you  are  all  got  together  at  this  sale  of  fineries  and 
knick-knacks.  You  call  them  goods  ;  but,  if  you  do  not  take  care, 
they  will  prove  evils  to  some  of  you.  You  expect  they  will  be  sold 
cheap;  and  perhaps  they  may  for  less  than  they  cost:  but,  if  j-ou 
have  no  occasion  for  them,  they  must  be  dear  to  you.  Remember 
what  Poor  Richard  says :  Buy  what  thou  hast  no  need  of,  and 
ere  long  thou  shall  sell  thy  necessaries.  And  again  :  At  a  great 
pennyworth  pause  a  while.  He  means  that  perhaps  the  cheap- 
ness is  apparent  only,  and  not  real ;  or  the  bargain,  by  straitening 
thee  in  thy  business,  may  do  thee  more  harm  than  good.  For  in 
another  place  he  says,  Many  have  been  ruined  by  buying  good 
pennyworths.  Again:  It  is  foolish  to  lay  out  money  in  a  pur- 
chase of  repentance  ;  and  yet  this  folly  is  practiced  every  day  at 
auctions  for  want  of  minding  '  The  Almanac.'  Many  a  one,  for  the 
sake  of  finery  on  the  back,  have  gone  with  a  hungry  belly,  and 
half  starved  their  families.  Silks  a/id  satins,  scarlet  and  velvets, 
put  out  the  kitchen-jire,  as  Poor  Richard  says. 

"  But  what  madness  must  it  be  to  run  in  debt  for  these  super- 
fluities! We  are  oifered  by  the  terms  of  this  sale  six  months' 
credit ;  and  that,  perhaps,  has  induced  some  of  us  to  attend  it, 
because  we  can  not  spare  the  ready  money,  and  hope  now  to  be 
fine  without  it.  But,  ah  !  think  what  you  do  when  you  run  in 
debt :  you  give  to  another  power  over  your  liberty.  If  you  can 
not  pay  at  the  time,  you  will  be  ashamed  to  see  your  creditor  ;  you 
will  be  in  fear  when  you  speak  to  him  ;  you  will  make  poor, 
pitiful,  sneaking  excuses,  and  by  degrees  come  to  lose  your  ve- 
racity, and  sink  into  base,  downright  lying ;  for  The  second  vice  is 
lying,  the  first  is  running  in  debt,  as  Poor  Richard  says.  And 
again,  to  the  same  purpose  :  Lying  rides  upon  debt's  back ;  where- 
as a  free-born  Englishman  ought  not  to  be  ashamed  nor  afraid  to 
see  or  speak  to  any  man  living.  But  poverty  often  deprives  a 
man  of  all  spirit  and  virtue.  It  is  hard  for  an  empty  bag  to 
stand  upright. 

"  What  would  you  think  of  that  prince,  or  of  that  government, 
who  should  issue  an  edict  forbidding  you  to  dress  like  a  gentleman 
or  gentlewoman,  on  pain  of  imprisonment  or  servitude  ?  Would 
you  not  say  that  you  were  free,  have  a  right  to  dress  as  you  please, 
and  that  such  an  edict  would  be  a  breach  of  your  privileges,  and 


BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN.  455 

such  a  government  tyrannical  ?  And  yet  you  are  about  to  put 
yourself  under  such  tyranny  when  you  run  in  debt  for  such  dress. 
Your  creditor  has  authority,  at  his  pleasure,  to  deprive  you  of  your 
liberty,  or  by  confining  you  in  jail,  till  you  shall  be  able  to  pay 
him.  When  you  have  got  your  bargain,  you  may  perhaps  think 
little  of  payment ;  but,  as  Poor  Richard  says,  Creditors  have 
Letter  memories  than  debtors  :  creditors  are  a  superstitious  sect, 
great  observers  of  set  days  and  times.  The  day  comes  round 
before  you  are  aware  ;  and  the  demand  is  made  before  you  are  pre- 
pared to  satisfy  it :  or,  if  you  bear  your  debt  in  mind,  the  term 
which  at  first  seemed  so  long,  will,  as  it  lessens,  appear  extremely 
short.  Time  will  seem  to  have  added  wings  to  his  heels  as  well 
as  his  shoulders.  Those  have  a  short  Lent  who  owe  money  to  be 
paid  at  Easter.  At  present,  perhaps  you  may  think  yourselves  in 
thriving  circumstances,  and  that  you  can  bear  a  little  extravagance 
without  injury:  but 

For  age  and  want  save  while  you  may  ; 
No  morning  sun  lasts  a  whole  day. 

Gain  may  be  temporary  and  uncertain ;  but  ever,  while  you  live, 
expense  is  constant  and  certain :  and  It  is  easier  to  build  two 
chimneys  than  to  keep  one  in  fuel,  as  Poor  Richard  says ;  so 
Rather  go  to  bed  supperless  than  rise  in  debt. 

"  This  doctrine,  my  friends,  is  reason  and  wisdom.  But,  after 
all,  do  not  depend  too  much  upon  your  own  industry  and  frugality 
and  prudence,  though  excellent  things ;  for  they  may  all  be 
blasted,  without  the  blessing  of  Heaven :  and,  therefore,  ask  that 
blessing  humbly,  and  be  not  uncharitable  to  those  that  at  present 
seem  to  want  it,  but  comfort  and  help  them.  Remember,  Job 
suffered,  and  was  afterwards  prosperous." 

Thus  the  old  gentleman  ended  his  harangue.  I  resolved  to  be 
the  better  for  it ;  and,  though  I  had  at  first  determined  to  buy 
stuff  for  a  new  coat,  I  went  away  resolved  to  wear  my  old  one  a 
little  longer.  Reader,  if  thou  wilt  do  the  same,  thy  profit  will  be 
as  great  as  mine.  I  am,  as  ever,  thine  to  serve  thee, 

RICHAKD  SAUNDEKS. 


A  PARABLE  AGAINST  PERSECUTION.* 

1.  AND  it  came  to  pass,  after  these  things,  that  Abraham  sat  in 
the  door  of  his  tent  about  the  going-down  of  the  sun. 

*  The  substance  of  this  beautiful  parable  was  not  original  with  Franklin ;  for  Jeremy 
Taylor  gives  it  as  taken  from  the  "Jews'  Book,"  and  it  is  traced  back  centuries  farther. 
The  true  author  is  not  known;  but  it  never  attracted  general  attention,  until,  in  the  hands 
of  Franklin,  it  assumed  the  scriptural  style.  Franklin  was  in  the  habit  of  amusing  him- 
self by  reading  it  to  divines  and  others  well  versed  in  the  Scriptures,  and  obtaining  their 
opinions  upon  it,  which  were  sometimes  very  diverting. 


456  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

2.  And,  behold,  a  man  bowed  with  age  came  from  the  way  of 
the  wilderness,  leaning  on  a  staff. 

3.  And  Abraham  arose  and  met  him,  and  said  unto  him,  "  Turn 
in,  I  pray  thee,  and  wash  thy  feet,  and  tarry  all  night ;  and  thou 
shalt  arise  early  on  the  morrow,  and  go  on  thy  way." 

4.  But  the  man  said,  "Xay;  for  I  will  abide  under  this  tree." 

5.  And  Abraham  pressed  him  greatly  :  so  he  turned,  and  they 
went  into  the  tent.    And  Abraham  baked  unleavened  bread ;  and 
they  did  eat. 

6.  And,  when  Abraham  saw  that  the  man  blessed  not  God,  he 
said  unto  him,  "  Wherefore  dost  thou  not  worship  the  most  high 
God,  Creator  of  heaven  and  earth?" 

7.  And  the  man  answered,  and  said,  "  I  do  not  worship  the 
God  thou  speakest  of,  neither  do  I  call  upon  his  name ;  for  I  have 
made  to  myself  a  god  which  abideth  alway  in  mine  house,  and 
provideth  me  with  all  things." 

8.  And  Abraham's  zeal  was  kindled  against  the  man ;  and  he 
arose,  and  fell  upon  him,  and  drove  him  forth  with  blows  into 
the  wilderness. 

9.  And  at  midnight  God  called  unto  Abraham,  saying,  "Abra- 
ham, where  is  the  stranger  ?  " 

10.  And  Abraham  answered,  and  said,  "  Lord,  he  would  not 
worship  thee,  neither  would  he  call  upon  thy  name  :   therefore 
have  I  driven  him  out  from  before  my  face  into  the  wilderness." 

11.  And  God  said,  "  Have  I  borne  with  him   these  hundred, 
ninety,  and  eight  years,  and  nourished  him  and  clothed  him,  not- 
withstanding his  rebellion  against  me,  and  couldst  not  thou,  that 
art  thyself  a  sinner,  bear  with  him  one  night  ?  " 

12.  And  Abraham  said,  "  Let  not  the  anger  of  the  Lord  wax 
hot  against  his  servant.    Lo,  I  have  sinned ;  lo,  I  have  sinned : 
forgive  me,  I  pray  thee." 

13.  And  Abraham  arose,  and  went  forth  into  the  wilderness, 
and  sought  diligently  for  the  man,  and  found  him,  and  returned 
with  him  to  the  tent ;  and,  when  he  had  entreated  him  kindly,  he 
sent  him  away  on  the  morrow  with  gifts. 

14.  And  God  spake  again  unto  Abraham,  saying,  "For  this  thy 
sin  shall  thy  seed  be  afflicted  four  hundred  years  in  a  strange  land : 

15.  "  But  for  thy  repentance  will  I    deliver  them  ;  and  they 
shall  come  forth  with  power,  and  with  gladness  of  heart,  and  with 
much  substance." 


THE    WHISTLE. 


WHEX  I  was  a  child  at  seven  years  old,  my  friends  on  a 
holiday  filled  my  little  pocket  with  coppers.  I  went  directly  to  a 
shop  where  they  sold  toys  for  children  ;  and,  being  charmed  with 


BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN.  457 

the  sound  of  a  ivliistle  that  I  met  by  the  way  "in  the  hands  of 
another  boy,  I  voluntarily  offered  him  all  my  money  for  one.  I 
then  came  home,  and  went  whistling  all  over  the  house,  much 
pleased  with  my  whistle,  but  disturbing  all  the  family.  My  broth- 
ers and  sisters  and  cousins,  understanding  the  bargain  I  had  made, 
told  me  I  had  given  four  times  as  much  for  it  as  it  was  worth. 
This  put  me  in  mind  what  good  things  I  might  have  bought 
with  the  rest  of  my  money:  and  they  laughed  at  me  so  much 
for  my  folly,  that  I  cried  with  vexation  ;  and  the  reflection  gave 
me  more  chagrin  than  the  whistle  gave  me  pleasure. 

This,  however,  was  afterwards  of  use  tome,  the  impression  con- 
tinuing on  my  mind :  so  that  often,  when  I  was  tempted  to  buy 
some  unnecessary  thing,  I  said  to  myself,  Don't  yivi  too  much  for 
the  whistle  ;  and  so  I  saved  my  money. 

As  I  grew  up,  came  into  the  world,  and  observed  the  actions 
of  men,  I  thought  I  met  with  many,  very  many,  who  gave  too 
much  for  the  whistle. 

When  I  saw  any  one  too  ambitious  of  court-favor,  sacrificing 
his  time  in  attendance  at  levees,  his  repose,  his  liberty,  his  virtue, 
and  perhaps  his  friends,  to  attain  it,  I  have  said  to  myself,  This 
man  gives  too  much  for  his  whistle. 

When  I  saw  another  fond  of  popularity,  constantly  employing 
himself  in  political  bustles,  neglecting  his  own  affairs,  and  ruin- 
ing them  by  that  neglect,  He  pays,  indeed,  says  I,  too  much  for 
his  iv hist le. 

If  I  knew  a  miser  who  gave  up  every  kind  of  comfortable  liv- 
ing, all  the  pleasure  of  doing  good  to  others,  all  the  esteem  of 
his  fellow-citizens,  and  the  joys  of  benevolent  friendship,  for  the 
sake  of  accumulating  wealth,  Poor  man,  says  I,  you  do,  indeed, 
pay  too  much  for  your  whistle. 

When  I  meet  a  man  of  pleasure  sacrificing  every  laudable  im- 
provement of  the  mind  or  of  his  fortune  to  mere  corporeal  sensa- 
tions, Mistaken  man,  says  I,  you  are  providing  pain  for  yourself 
instead  of  pleasure :  you,  give  too  much  for  your  whistle. 

If  I  see  one  fond  of  fine  clothes,  fine  furniture,  fine  equipages 
(all  above  his  fortune),  for  which  he  contracts  debts,  and  ends  his 
career  in  prison,  Alas  !  says  I,  he  has  paid  dear,  very  dear,  for 
his  ivhistle. 

When  I  see  a  beautiful,  sweet-tempered  girl  married  to  an  ill- 
natured  brute  of  a  husband,  What  a  pity  it  is,  says  I,  that 
she  has  paid  so  much  for  a  whistle  ! 

In  short,  I  conceived  that  a  great  part  of  the  miseries  of  man- 
kind were  brought  upon  them  by  the  false  estimates  they  had 
made  of  the  value  of  things,  and  by  their  giving  too  much  for 
their  whistles. 


458  ENGLISH  LIT/ERATCTKE. 


TURNING    THE    GRIXDSTOXE. 

I  was?  a  little  boy,  I  remember  one  cold  winter's  morn- 
ing I  was  accosted  by  a  smiling  man  with  an  ax  on  his  shoulder. 
"  My  pretty  boy,"  said  he,  "  has  your  father  a  grindstone  ?  " — 
"  Yes,  sir,"  said  I.  "  You  are  a  fine  little  fellow,"  said  he :  "  will 
3-011  let  me  grind  my  ax  on  it  ?  "  Pleased  with  the  compliment  of 
"  Fine  little  fellow !  "  "  Oh,  yes,  sir !  "  I  answered  :  "  it  is  down  in 
the  shop." —  "  And  will  you,  my  man,"  said  he,  patting  me  on  the 
head,  "  get  me  a  little  hot  water? "  How  could  I  refuse  ?  I  ran, 
and  soon  brought  a  kettleful.  "  How  old  are  you  ?  and  what's 
your  name  ?  "  continued  he,  without  waiting  for  a  reply.  "I  am 
sure  you  are  one  of  the  finest  lads  that  ever  I  have  seen :  will 
you  just  turn  a  few  minutes  for  me?" 

Tickled  with  the  flattery,  like  a  little  fool,  I  went  to  work  ;  and 
bitterly  did  I  rue  the  day.  It  was  a  new  ax;  and  I  toiled  and 
tugged  till  I  was  almost  tired  to  death.  The  school-bell  rang, 
and  I  could  not  get  away :  my  hands  were  blistered ;  and  the  ax 
was  not  half  ground.  At  length,  however,  it  was  sharpened  ;  and 
the  man  turned  to  me  with,  "  Now,  3-011  little  rascal,  you've  played 
truant :  scud  to  the  school,  or  3Tou'll  buy  it !  "  —  "  Alas ! "  thought 
I,  "  it  is  hard  enough  to  turn  a  grindstone  this  cold  day ;  but 
now  to  be  called  a  little  rascal  is  too  much." 

It  sank  deep  in  m3r  mind  ;  and  often  have  I  thought  of  it  since. 
AY  hen  I  see  u  merchant  over-polite  to  his  customers,  begging 
them  to  take  a  little  brandy,  and  throwing  his  goods  on  the 
counter,  thinks  I,  "  That  man  has  an  ax  to  grind."  When  I  see 
a  man  flattering  the  people,  making  great  professions  of  attach- 
ment to  liberty,  who  is  in  private  life  a  t3Trant,  methinks,  "  Look 
out,  good  people  !  that  fellow  would  set  you  turning  grindstones." 

When  I  see  a  man  hoisted  into  office  03-  party-spirit,  without 
a  single  qualification  to  render  him  either  respectable  or  useful, 
"  Alas,"  methinks,  u  deluded  people  !  you  are  doomed  for  a  season 
to  turn  the  grindstone  for  a  booby." 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH. 

1728-1774. 

The  kind-hearted,  Denial  author  of  "  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield,"  "  The  Deserted 
Village,"  "The  Traveler,"  and  the  two  comedies,  "The  Good-natured  Man"  and 
"She  Stoops  to  Conquer,"  "Histories  of  England,  Greece,  and  Rome,"  and  "The 
Earth  and  Animated  Nature."  Everybody  loves  Goldsmith  and  Irving. 


OLIVEK  GOLDSMITH.  459 


THE   DESERTED     VILLAGE. 

SWEET  Auburn,  loveliest  village  of  the  plain  ! 
Where  health  and  plenty  cheered  the  laboring  swain; 
Where  smiling  Spring  its  earliest  visit  paid, 
And  parting  Summer's  lingering  blooms  delayed,  — 
Dear  lovely  bowers  of  innocence  and  ease, 
Seats  of  my  youth,  when  every  sport  could  please,  — 
How  often  have  1  loitered  o'er  thy  green, 
Where  humble  happiness  endeared  each  scene  ! 
How  often  have  I  paused  on  every  charm  !  — 
The  sheltered  cot ;  the  cultivated  farm ; 
The  never-failing  brook ;  the  busy  mill ; 
The  decent  church  that  topt  the  neighboring  hill ; 
The  hawthorn-bush,  with  seats  beneath  the  shade 
For  talking  age  and  whispering  lovers  made. 
How  often  have  I  blessed  the  coining  day 
When  toil  remitting  lent  its  turn  to  play, 
And  all  the  village  train,  from  labor  free, 
Led  up  their  sports  beneath  the  spreading  tree, 
While  many  a  pastime  circled  in  the  shade, 
The  young  contending  as  the  old  surveyed, 
And  many  a  gambol  frolicked  o'er  the  ground, 
And  sleights  of  art  and  feats  of  strength  went  round! 
And  still,  as  each  repeated  pleasure  tired. 
Succeeding  sports  the  mirthful  band  inspired,  — 
The  dancing  pair  that  simply  sought  renown 
By  holding  out  to  tire  each  other  down ; 
The  swain,  mistrustless  of  his  smutted  face, 
While  secret  laughter  tittered  round  the  place ; 
The  bashful  virgin's  sidelong  looks  of  love  ; 
The  matron's  glance  that  would  those  looks  reprove. 
These  were  thy  charms,  sweet  village !  sports  like  these, 
With  sweet  succession,  taught  even  toil  to  please. 
These  round  thy  bowers  their  cheerful  influence  shed ; 
These  were  thy  charms,  —  but  all  these  charms  are  fled. 

Sweet  smiling  village,  loveliest  of  the  lawn  ! 
Thy  sports  are  fled,  and  all  thy  charms  withdrawn. 
Amidst  thy  bowers  the  tyrant's  hand  is  seen, 
And  desolation  saddens  all  thy  green  : 
One  only  master  grasps  the  whole  domain, 
And  half  a  tillage  stints  thy  smiling  plain. 
No  more  thy  glassy  brook  reflects  the  day, 
But,  choked  with  sedges,  works  its  weary  way. 
Along  thy  glades,  a  solitary  guest, 
The  hollow-sounding  bittern  guards  its  nest ; 
Amidst  thy  desert-walks  the  lapwing  flies, 
And  tires  their  echoes  with  unvaried  cries; 
Sifnk  are  thy  bowers  in  shapeless  ruin  all ; 
And  the  long  grass  o'ertops  the  moldering  wall ; 
And  trembling,  shrinking  from  the  spoiler's  hand, 
Far,  far  away,  thy  children  leave  the  land. 


460  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

HI  fares  the  land,  to  hastening  ills  a  prey, 
Where  wealth  accumulates  and  men  decay  : 
Princes  and  lords  may  flourish*  or  may  fade, 
(A  breath  can  make  them,  as  a  breath  has  made  ;) 
But  a  bold  peasantry,  their  country's  pride, 
When  once  destroyed,  can  never  be  supplied. 

A  time  there  was,  ere  England's  griefs  began, 
When  every  rood  of  ground  maintained  its  man : 
For  him  light  Labor  spread  her  wholesome  store, 
Just  gave  what  life  required,  but  gave  no  more ; 
His  best  companions,  innocence  and  health ; 
And  his  best  riches,  ignorance  of  wealth. 

But  times  are  altered :  Trade's  unfeeling  train 
Usurp  the  land,  and  dispossess  the  swain. 
Along  the  lawn  where  scattered  hamlets  rose, 
Unwieldy  wealth  and  cumbrous  pomp  repose, 
And  every  want  to  luxury  allied, 
And  every  pang  that  folly  pays  to  pride. 
Those  gentle  hours  that  Plenty  bade  to  bloom  ; 
Those  calm  desires  that  asked  but  little  room  ; 
Those  healthful  sports  that  graced  the  peaceful  scene, 
Lived  in  each  look,  and  brightened  all  the  green,  — 
These,  far  departing,  seek  a  kinder  shore ; 
And  rural  mirth  and  manners  are  no  more. 

Sweet  Auburn,  parent  of  the  blissful  hour ! 
Thy  glades  forlorn  confess  the  tyrant's  power. 
Here  as  I  take  my  solitary  rounds 
Amidst  thy  tangling  walks  and  ruined  grounds, 
And,  many  a  year  elapsed,  return  to  view 
Where  once  the  cottage  stood,  the  hawthorn  grew, 
Remembrance  wakes  with  all  her  busy  train, 
Swells  at  my  breast,  and  turns  the  past  to  pain. 

In  all  my  wanderings  round  this  world  of  care, 
In  all  my  griefs,  —  and  God  has  given  my  share,  — 
I  still  had  hopes,  my  latest  hours  to  crown, 
Amidst  these  humble  bowers  to  lay  me  down ; 
To  husband  out  life's  taper  at  the  close, 
And  keep  the  flame  from  wasting  by  repose. 
I  still  had  hopes,  for  pride  attends  us  still, 
Amidst  the  swains  to  show  my  book-learned  skill ; 
Around  my  fire  an  evening  group  to  draw, 
And  tell  of  all  I  felt  and  all  I  saw : 
And  as  a  hare,  whom  hounds  and  horns  pursue, 
Pants  for  the  place  from  whence  at  first  she  flew, 
I  still  had  hopes,  my  long  vexations  past, 
Here  to  return,  and  die  at  home  at  last. 

O  blest  retirement,  friend  to  life's  decline, 
Retreat  from  cares,  that  never  must  be  mine ! 
How  blest  is  he  who  crowns,  in  shades  like  these, 
A  youth  of  labor  with  an  age  of  ease ; 
Who  quits  a  world  where  strong  tempations  try, 
And,  since  'tis  hard  to  combat,  learns  to  fly ! 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.  461 

For  him  no  wretches,  born  to  work  and  weep, 
Explore  the  mine,  or  tempt  the  dangerous  deep ; 
No  surly  porter  stands  in  guilty  state 
To  spurn  imploring  Famine  from  the  gate : 
But  on  he  moves  to  meet  his  latter  end, 
Angels  around  befriending  Virtue's  friend; 
Sinks  to  the  grave  with  unperceived  decay, 
While  Resignation  gently  slopes  the  way  ; 
And,  all  his  prospects  brightening  to  the  last, 
His  heaven  commences  ere  the  world  be  passed. 

Sweet  was  the  sound,  when  oft,  at  evening's  close, 
Up  yonder  hill  the  village  murmur  rose ! 
There  as  I  passed  with  careless  steps  and  slow, 
The  mingling  notes  came  softened  from  below : 
The  swain  responsive  as  the  milk-maid  sung, 
The  sober  herd  that  lowed  to  meet  their  young, 
The  noisy  geese  that  gabbled  o'er  the  pool, 
The  playful  children  just  let  loose  from  school, 
The  watch-dog's  voice  that  bayed  the  whispering  wind, 
And  the  loud  laugh  that  spoke  the  vacant  min-J,  — 
These  all  in  sweet  confusion  sought  the  shade, 
And  filled  each  pause  the  nightingale  had  made. 
But  now  the  sounds  of  population  fail ; 
No  cheerful  murmurs  fluctuate  in  the  gale  ; 
No  busy  steps  the  grass-grown  footway  tread ; 
For  all  the  blooming  flush  of  life  is  fled,  — 
All  but  yon  widowed,. solitary  thing 
That  feebly  bends  beside  the  plashy  spring : 
She,  wretched  matron  !  forced  in  age,  for  bread, 
To  strip  the  brook  with  mantling  cresses  spread, 
To  pick  her  wintry  fagot  from  the  thorn, 
To  seek  her  nightly  shed,  and  weep  till  morn, — 
She  only  left  of  all  the  harmless  train. 
The  sad  historian  of  the  pensive  plain ! 

Near  yonder  copse,  where  once  the  garden  smiled, 
And  still  where  many  a  garden-flower  grows  wild,  — 
There,  where  a  few  torn  shrubs  the  place  disclose, 
The  village  preacher's  modest  mansion  rose. 
A  man  he  was  to  all  the  country  dear, 
And  passing  rich  with  forty  pounds  a  year. 
Remote  from  towns  he  ran  his  godly  race, 
Nor  e'er  had  changed,  nor  wished  to  change,  his  place : 
Unpracticed  he  to  fawn,  or  seek  for  power, 
By  doctrines  fashioned  to  the  varying  hour ; 
Far  other  aims  his  heart  had  learned  to  prize,  — 
More  bent  to  raise  the  wretched  than  to  rise. 
His  house  was  known  to  all  the  vagrant  train : 
He  chid  their  wanderings,  but  relieved  their  pain. 
The  fang-remembered  beggar  was  his  guest, 
Whose  beard,  descending,  swept  his  aged  breast ; 
The  ruined  spendthrift,  now  no  longer  proud, 
Claimed  kindred  there,  and  had  his  claims  allowed ; 


462  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

The  broken  soldier,  kindly  bade  to  stay, 
Sat  by  his  fire,  and  talked  the  night  away, 
Wept  o'er  his  wounds,  or,  tales  of  sorrow  done, 
Shouldered  his  crutch,  and  showed  how  fields  were  won. 
Pleased  with  his  guests,  the  good  man  learned  to  glow, 
And  quite  forgot  their  vices  in  their  woe  : 
Careless  their  merits  or  their  faults  to  scan, 
His  pity  gave  ere  charity  began. 

Thus  to  relieve  the  wretched  was  his  pride ; 
And  e'en  his  failings  leaned  to  virtue's  side. 
But  in  his  duty,  prompt  at  every  call, 
He  watched  and  wept,  he  prayed  and  felt,  for  all; 
And,  as  a  bird  each  fond  endearment  tries 
To  tempt  its  new-fledged  offspring  to  the  skies, 
He  tried  each  art,  reproved  each  dull  delay, 
Allured  to  brighter  worlds,  and  led  the  way. 

Beside  the  bed  where  parting  life  was  laid, 
And  sorrow,  guilt,  and  pain,  by  turns  dismayed, 
The  reverend  champion  stood.     At  his  control, 
Despair  and  anguish  fled  the  struggling  (•oul ; 
Comfort  came  down  the  trembling  wretch  to  raise ; 
And  his  last  faltering  accents  whispered  praise. 

At  church,  with  meek  and  unaffected  grace, 
His  looks  adorned  the  venerable  place : 
Truth  from  his  lips  prevailed  with  double  sway; 
And  fools  who  came  to  scoff  remained  to  pray. 
The  service  passed,  around  the  pious  man, 
With  ready  zeal,  each  honest  rustic  ran : 
E'en  children  followed  with  endearing  wile, 
And  plucked  his  gown  to  share  the  good  man's  smile. 
His  ready  smile  a  parent's  warmth  expressed  : 
Their  welfare  pleased  him,  and  their  cares  distressed. 
To  them  his  heart,  his  love,  his  griefs,  were  given; 
But  all  his  serious  thoughts  had  rest  in  heaven. 
As  some  tall  cliff  that  lifts  its  awful  form, 
Swells  from  the  vale,  and  midway  leaves  the  storm, 
Though  round  its  breast  the  rolling  clouds  are  spread, 
Eternal  sunshine  settles  on  its  head. 

Beside  yon  strairgling  fence  that  skirts  the  way 
With  blossomed  furze  unprofitably  gay,  — 
There,  in  his  noisy  mansion,  skilled  to  rule, 
The  village  master  taught  his  little  school. 
A  man  severe  he  was,  and  stern  to  view : 
I  knew  him  well,  and  every  truant  knew. 
Well  had  the  boding  tremblers  learned  to  trace 
The  day's  disasters  in  his  morning  face  ; 
Full  well  they  laughed  with  counterfeited  glee 
At  all  his  jokes  (for  many  a  joke  had  he) ; 
Full  well  the  busy  whisper,  circling  round, 
Conveyed  the  dismal  tidings  Avhen  he  frowned. 
Yet  he  was  kind  ;  or  if  severe  in  aught, 
The  love  he  bore  to  learning  was  in  fault. 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.  403 

The  village  all  declared  how  much  he  knew  : 
'Twas  certain  he  could  write,  and  cipher  too ; 
Lands  he  could  measure,  terms  and  tides  presage; 
And  e'en  the  story  ran  that  he  could  gauge. 
In  arguing,  too,  the  parson  owned  his  skill ; 
For,  e'en  though  vanquished,  he  could  argue  still : 
While  words  of*  learned  length  and  thundering  soi'nd 
Amazed  the  gazing  rustics  ranged  around ; 
And  still  they  gazed,  and  still  the  wonder  grew 
That  one  small  head  could  carry  all  he  knew. 

But  passed  is  all  his  fame ;  the  very  spot 
Where  many  a  time  he  triumphed  is  tbrgot. 
Near  yonder  thorn  that  lifts  its  head  on  high, 
Where  once  the  sign-post  caught  the  passing  eye, 
Low  lies  that  house  where  nut-brown  draughts  inspired ; 
Where  gray-beard  mirth  and  smiling  toil  retired ; 
Where  village  statesmen  talked  with  looks  profound, 
And  news  much  older  than  their  ale  went  round. 
Imagination  fondly  stoops  to  trace 
The  parlor  splendors  of  that  festive  place,  — 
The  white- washed  wall ;  the  nicely-sanded  floor ; 
The  varnished  clock  that  clicked  behind  the  door ; 
The  chest,  contrived  a  double  debt  to  pay,  — 
A  bed  by  night,  a  chest  of  drawers  by  day ; 
The  pictures  placed  for  ornament  and  use ; 
The  twelve  good  rules ;  the  royal  game  of  goose ; 
The  hearth,  except  when  winter  chilled  the  day, 
With  aspen-boughs  and  flowers  and  fennel  gay ; 
While  broken  tea-cups,  wisely  kept  for  show, 
Ranged  o'er  the  chimney,  glistened  in  a  row. 

Vain,  transitory  splendors !  could  not  all 
Reprieve  the  tottering  mansion  from  its  fall  ? 
Obscure  it  sinks ;  nor  shall  it  more  impart 
An  hour's  importance  to  the  poor  man's  heart : 
Thither  no  more  the  peasant  shall  repair 
To  sweet  oblivion  of  his  daily  care ; 
No  more  the  farmer's  news,  the  barber's  tale, 
No  more  the  woodman's  ballad,  shall  prevail ; 
No  more  the  smith  his  dusky  brow  shall  clear, 
Relax  his  ponderous  strength,  and  lean  to  hear ; 
The  host  himself  no  longer  shall  be  found 
Careful  to  see  the  mantling  bliss  go  round  ; 
Nor  the  coy  maid,  half  willing  to  be  pressed, 
Shrill  kiss  the  cup  to  pass  it  to  the  rest. 

Yes !  let  the  rich  deride,  the  proud  disdain, 
These  simple  blessings  of  the  lowly  train : 
To  me  more  dear,  congenial  to  my"  heart, 
One  native  charm,  than  all  the  gloss  of  art. 
Spontaneous  joys  where  Nature  has  its  play, 
The  soul  adopts,  and  owns  their  first-born  sway ; 
Lightly  they  frolic  o'er  the  vacant  mind, 
Unenvied,  unmolested,  unconfmed : 


4G4  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

But  the  long  pomp,  the  midnight  masquerade, 
With  all  the  freaks  of  wanton  wealth  arrayed,  — 
In  these,  ere  triflers  half  their  wish  obtain, 
The  toiling  pleasure  sickens  into  pain ; 
And,  even  while  Fashion's  brightest  arts  decoy, 
The  heart  distrusting  asks  if  this  be  joy. 

Ye  friends  to  truth,  ye  statesmen  who  survey 
The  rich  man's  joys  increase,  the  jwor's  decay  1 
'Tis  yours  to  judge  how  wide  the  limits  stand 
Between  a  splendid  and  a  happy  land. 
Proud  swells  the  tide  with  loads  of  freighted  ore, 
And  shouting  Folly  hails  them  from  her  shore  j 
Hoards  even  beyond  the  miser's  wish  aboand  ; 
And  rich  men  flock  from  all  the  world  around. 
Yet  count  our  gains :  this  wealth  is  but  a  name, 
That  leaves  our  useful  products  still  the  same. 
Not  so  the  loss.     The  man  of  wealth  and  pride 
Takes  up  a  space  that  many  poor  supplied,  — 
Space  for  his  lake,  his  park's  extended  bounds  ; 
Space  for  his  horses,  equipage,  and  hounds  : 
The  robe  that  wraps  his  limbs  in  silken  sloth 
Has  robbed  the  neighboring  fields  of  half  their  growth ; 
His  seat,  where  solitary  spots  are  seen, 
Indignant  spurns  the  cottage  from  the  green ; 
Around  the  world  each  needful  product  flies 
For  all  the  luxuries  the  world  supplies ; 
While  thus  the  land,  adorned  for  pleasure,  all, 
In  ban-en  splendor,  feebly  waits  the  fall. 

As  some  fair  female,  unadorned  and  plain, 
Secure  to  please  while  youth  confirms  her  reign, 
Slights  every  borrowed  charm  that  dress  supplies, 
Nor  shares  with  art  the  triumph  of  her  eyes ; 
But  when  those  charms  are  passed,  for  charms  are  frail, 
When  time  advances,  and  when  lovers  fail, 
She  then  shines  forth,  solicitous  to  bless, 
In  all  the  glaring  impotence  of  dress. 
Thus  fares  the  land  by  luxury  betrayed  : 
In  Nature's  simplest  charms  at  first  arrayed, 
But  verging  to  decline,  its  splendors  rise, 
Its  vistas  strike,  its  palaces  surprise ; 
While,  scourged  by  famine,  from  the  smiling  land 
The  mournful  peasant  leads  his  humble  band ; 
And  while  he  sinks,  without  one  arm  to  save, 
The  country  blooms,  —  a  garden  and  a  grave. 

Where,  then,  ah !  where,  shall  Poverty  reside, 
To  'scape  the  pressure  of  contiguous  pride  ? 
If  to  some  common's  fenceless  limits  strayed 
He  drives  his  flocks  to  pick  the  scanty  blade, 
Those  fenceless  fields  the  sons  of  wealth  divide ; 
And  even  the  bare-worn  common  is  denied. 

If  to  the  city  sped,  what  waits  him  there  ? 
To  see  profusion  that  he  must  not  share  ; 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.  465 

To  see  ten  thousand  baneful  arts  combined 

To  pamper  luxury  and  thin  mankind : 

To  see  each  joy  the  sons  of  Pleasure  know' 

Extorted  from  his  fellow-creatures'  woe. 

Here  while  the  courtier  glitters  in  brocade, 

There  the  pale  artist  plies  the  sickly  trade ; 

Here  while  the  proud  their  long-drawn  pomps  display, 

There  the  black  gibbet  glooms  beside  the  way  ; 

The  dome  where  Pleasure  holds  her  midnight  reign, 

Here,  richly  decked,  admits  the  gorgeous  train  ; 

Tumultuous  grandeur  crowds  the  blazing  square, 

The  rattling  chariots  clash,  the  torches  glare. 

Sure  scenes  like  these  no  troubles  e'er  annoy; 

Sure  these  denote  one  universal  joy  ! 

Are  these  thy  serious  thoughts  ?     Ah  !  turn  thine  eyes 

Where  the  poor,  houseless,  shivering  female  lies. 

She  once,  perhaps,  in  village  plenty  blessed, 

Has  wept  at  tales  of  innocence  distressed  : 

Her  modest  looks  the  cottage  might  adorn, 

Sweet  as  the  primrose  peeps  beneath  the  thorn ; 

Now  lost  to  all,  her  friends,  her  virtue,  fled, 

Near  her  betrayer's  door  she  lays  her  head, 

And  pinched  with  cold,  and  shrinking  from  the  shower, 

With  heavy  heart  deplores  that  luckless  hour 

When  idly  first,  ambitious  of  the  town, 

She  left  her  wheel,  and  robes  of  country  brown. 

Do  thine,  sweet  Auburn !  thine,  the  loveliest  train,— 
Do  thy  fair  tribes  participate  her  pain  V 
Even  now,  perhaps,  by  cold  and  hunger  led, 
At  proud  men's  doors  they  ask  a  little  bread. 

Ah,  no !  to  distant  climes,  a  dreary  scene, 
Where  half  the  convex  world  intrudes  between, 
Through  torrid  tracks  with  fainting  steps  they  go, 
Where  wild  Altama  murmurs  to  their  woe. 
Far  different  there  from  all  that  charmed  before, 
The  various  terrors  of  that  horrid  shore, — 
Those  blazing  suns  that  dart  a  downward  ray, 
And  fiercely  shed  intolerable  day  ; 
Those  matted  woods  where  birds  forget  to  sing, 
But  silent  bats  in  drowsy  clusters  cling ; 
Those  poisonous  fields  with  rank  luxuriance  crowned, 
Where  the  dark  scorpion  gathers  death  around ; 
Where  at  each  step  the  stranger  fears  to  wake 
The  rattling  terrors  of  the  vengeful  snake ; 
Where  crouching  tigers  wait  their  hapless  prey, 
And  savage  men  more  murderous  still  than  they; 
While  oft  in  whirls  the  mad  tornado  flies, 
Mingling  the  ravaged  landscape  with  the  skies. 
Far  different  these  from  every  former  scene,  — 
The  cooling  brook,  the  grassy-vested  green, 
The  breezy  covert  of  the  warbling  grove, 
That  only  sheltered  thefts  of  harmless  love. 
30 


4G6  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Good  Heaven  !  what  sorrows  gloomed  that  parting  day 
That  called  them  from  their  native  walks  away, 
When  the  poor  exiles,  every  pleasure  past. 
Hung  round  the  bowers,  and  fondly  looked  their  last, 
And  took  a  long  farewell,  and  wished  in  vain 
For  seats  like  these  beyond  the  western  main, 
And,  shuddering  still  to  face  the  distant  deep, 
Returned  and  wept,  and  still  returned  to  weep ! 
The  good  old  sire  the  first  prepared  to  go 
To  new-found  worlds,  and  wept  for  others'  woe ; 
But  for  himself,  in  conscious  virtue  brave, 
He  onlv  wished  for  worlds  beyond  the  grave. 
His  lovely  daughter,  lovelier  in  her  tears, 
The  fond  companion  of  his  helpless  years, 
Silent  went  next,  neglectful  of  her  charms, 
And  left  a  lover's  for  her  father's  arms. 
With  louder  plaints  the  mother  spoke  her  woes, 
And  blessed  the  cot  where  every  pleasure  rose, 
And  kissed  her  thoughtless  babes  with  many  a  tear, 
And  clasped  them  close,  in  sorrow  doubly  dear ; 
Whilst  her  fond  husband  strove  to  lend  relief 
In  all  the  silent  manliness  of  grief. 

O  Luxury,  thou  curst  by  Heaven's  decree ! 
How  ill  exchanged  are  things  like  these  for  thee ! 
How  do  thy  potions,  with  insidious  joy, 
Diffuse  their  pleasures  only  to  destroy  ! 
Kingdoms  by  thee,  to  sickly  greatness  grown, 
Boast  of  a  florid  vigor  not  their  o\vn : 
At  every  draught,  more  large  and  large  they  grow, 
A  bloated  mass  of  rank,  unwieldy  woe ; 
Till,  sapped  their  strength,  and  every  part  unsound, 
Down,  down,  they  sink,  and  spread  a  ruin  round. 

E'en  now  the  devastation  is  begun, 
And  half  the  business  of  destruction  done ; 
E'en  now,  methinks,  as  pondering  here  I  stand, 
I  see  the  rural  virtues  leave  the  land. 
Down  where  yon  anchoring  vessel  spreads  the  sail, 
That,  idly  waiting,  flaps  with  every  gale, 
Downward  they  move,  a  melancholy  band, 
Pass  from  the  shore,  and  darken  all  the  strand. 
Contented  toil,  and  hospitable  care, 
And  kind  connubial  tenderness,  are  there, 
And  piety  with  wishes  placed  above, 
And  steady  loyalty,  and  faithful  love. 
And  thou,  sweet  Poetry,  thou  loveliest  maid ! 
Still  first  to  fly  where  sensual  joys  invade ; 
Unfit,  in  these  degenerate  times  of  shame, 
To  catch  the  heart,  or  strike  for  honest  fame ; 
Dear,  charming  nymph !  neglected  and  decried, 
My  shame  in  crowds,  my  solitary  pride; 
Thou  source  of  all  my  bliss  and  all  my  woe, 
That  found'st  me  poor  at  first,  and  keep'st  me  so ; 


THOMAS   GRAY.  407 

Thou  guide,  by  which  the  noble  arts  excel  ; 
Thou  nurse  of  every  virtue,  —  fare  thee  well ! 
Farewell !  and,  oh  !  where'er  thy  voice  be  tried, 
On-  Torno's  cliffs,  or  Pambani area's  side, 
Whether  where  equinoctial  fervors  glow, 
Or  Winter  wraps  the  polar  world  in  snow, 
Still  let  thy  voice,  prevailing  over  time, 
Redress  the  rigors  of  the  inclement  clime ; 
Aid  slighted  Truth  with  thy  persuasive  strain ; 
Teach  erring  man  to  spurn  the  rage  of  gain ; 
Teach  him  that  states  of  native  strength  possessed, 
Though  very  poor,  may  still  be  very  blessed; 
That  Trade's  proud  empire  hastes  to  swift  decay, 
As  Ocean  sweeps  the  labored  mole  away; 
While  self-dependent  power  can  Time  defy, 
As  rocks  resist  the  billows  and  the  sky. 


THOMAS    GRAY. 

1716-1771. 

Distinguished  as  poet  and  scholar.  "  Ode  to  Spring,"  "  The  Bard,"  "  The  Prog- 
ress of  Poesy,"  nnd  "  Elegy  written  in  a  Country  Churchyard."  His  letters  are 
noted  for  their  clear,  elegant,  and  picturesque  style. 


ELEGY    WRITTEN  IN  A    COUNTRY    CHURCHYARD* 

THE  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day ; 

The  lowing  herd  wind  slowly  o'er  the  lea ; 
The  plowman  homeward  plods  his  weary  way, 

And  leaves  the  world  to  darkness  and  to  me. 

Now  fades  the  glimmering  landscape  on  the  sight, 

And  all  the  air  a  solemn  stillness  holds, 
Save  where  the  beetle  wheels  his  droning  flight, 

And  drowsy  tinklings  lull  the  distant  folds ; 

Save  that,  from  yonder  ivy-mantled  tower, 
The  moping  owl  does  to  the  moon  complain 

Of-  such  as,  wandering  near  her  secret  bower, 
Molest  her  ancient,  solitary  reign. 

*  The  reasons  of  that  universal  approbation  with  which  this  Elegy  has  been  received 
may  be  learned  from  the  comprehensive  encomium  of  Dr.  Johnson:  "It  abounds  with 
images  which  find  a  mirror  in  every  soul,  and  with  sentiments  to  which  every  bosom 
returns  an  echo." 

"  Had  Gray  written  nothing  but  his  Elegy,  high  as  he  stands,  I  am  not  sure  that  ho 
would  not  stand  higher:  it  is  the  corner-stone  of  his  glory."  —  Lord  tiyron. 


468  ENGLISH  LITEPwATURE. 

Beneath  those  rugged  el  ins,  that  yew-tree's  shade, 
Where  heaves  the  turf  in  many  a  moldering  heap, 

Each  in  his  narrow  cell  for  ever  laid, 

The  rude  forefathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep. 

The  breezy  call  of  incense-breathing  Morn, 

The  swallow  twittering  from  the  straw-built  shed, 

The  cock's  shrill  clarion,  or  the  echoing  horn. 
No  more  shall  rouse  them  from  their  lowly  bed. 

For  them  no  more  the  blazing  hearth  shall  burn, 
Or  busy  housewife  ply  her  evening  care  ; 

No  children  run  to  lisp  their  sire's  return, 
Or  climb  his  knees  the  envied  kiss  to  share. 

Oft  did  the  harvest  to  their  sickle  yield  ; 

Their  furrow  oft  the  stubborn  glebe  has  broke : 
How  jocund  did  they  drive  their  team  afield ! 

How  bowed  the  woods  beneath  their  sturdy  stroke ! 

Let  not  Ambition  mock  their  useful  toil, 
Their  homely  joys,  and  destiny  obscure ; 

Nor  Grandeur  hear  with  a  disdainful  smile 
The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor. 

The  boast  of  Heraldry,  the  pomp  of  Power, 

And  all  that  Beauty,  all  that  Wealth,  e'er  gave, 

Await  alike  the  inevitable  hour  : 

The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave. 

Nor  you,  ye  proud,  impute  to  these  the  fault 
If  Memory  o'er  their  tomb  no  trophies  raise 

Where  through  the  long-drawn  aisle  and  fretted  vault 
The  pealing  anthem  swells  the  note  of  praise. 

Can  storied  urn  or  animated  bust 

Back  to  its  mansion  call  the  fleeting  breath? 

Can  Honor's  voice  provoke  the  silent  dust  ? 

Or  Flattery  soothe  the  dull,  cold  ear  of  death  ? 

Perhaps  in  this  neglected  spot  is  laid 

Some  heart  once  pregnant  with  celestial  fire  ; 

Hands  that  the  rod  of  empire  might  have  swayed, 
Or  waked  to  ecstasy  the  living  lyre  ; 

But  Knowledge  to  their  eyes  her  ample  page, 

Rich  with  the  spoils  of  Time,  did  ne'er  unroll ;     ' 

Chill  Penury  repressed  their  noble  rage, 
And  froze  the  genial  current  of  the  soul. 

Full  many  a  gem  of  purest  ray  serene 

The  dark,  unfathomed  eaves  of  ocean  bear ; 

Full  many  a  flower  is  born  to  blush  unseen, 
And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air. 


THOMAS   GRAY.  469 

Some  village  Hampden,  th^it  with  dauntless  breast 

The  little  tyrant  of  his  fields  withstood, 
Some  mute  inglorious  Milton,  here  may  rest ; 

Some  Cromwell,  guiltless  of  his  country's  blood. 

The  applause  of  listening  senates  to  command, 

The  threats  of  pain  and  ruin  to  despise, 
To  scatter  plenty  o'er  a  smiling  land, 

And  read  their  history  in  a  nation's  eyes, 

Their  lot  forbade :  nor  circumscribed  alone 

Their  growing  virtues,  but  their  crimes  confined ; 

Forbade  to  wade  through  slaughter  to  a  throne, 
And  shut  the  gates  of  mercy  on  mankind, 

The  struggling  pangs  of  conscious  truth  to  hide, 

To  quench  the  blushes  of  ingenuous  shame, 
Or  heap  the  shrine  of  Luxury  and  Pride 

With  incense  kindled  at  the  Muse's  flame. 

Far  from  the  madding  crowd's  ignoble  strife, 

Their  sober  wishes  never  learned  to  stray : 
Along  the  cool,  sequestered  vale  of  life 

They  kept  the  noiseless  tenor  of  their  way. 

Yet  e'en  these  bones  from  insult  to  protect, 

Some  frail  memorial  still  erected  nigh, 
With  uncouth  rhymes  and  shapeless  sculpture  decked, 

Implores  the  passing  tribute  of  a  sigh. 

Their  name,  their  years,  spelt  by  the  unlettered  Muse, 

The  place  of  fame  and  elegy  supply  ; 
And  many  a  holy  text  around  she  strews, 

That  teach  the  rustic  moralist  to  die. 

For  who,  to  dumb  forgetfulness  a  prey, 

This  pleasing,  anxious  being  e'er  resigned, 
Left  the  warm  precincts  of  the  cheerful  day, 

Nor  cast  one  longing,  lingering  look  behind  ? 

On  some  fond  breast  the  parting  soul  relies  ; 

Some  pious  drops  the  closing  eye  requires : 
E'en  from  the  tomb  the  voice  of  Nature  cries ; 

E'en  in  our  ashes  live  their  wonted  fires. 


For  thee,  who,  mindful  of  the  unhonored  dead, 
Dost  in  tiiese  lines  their  artless  tale  relate, 

If  chance,  by  lonely  contemplation  led, 
Some  kindred  spirit  shall  inquire  thy  fate, 

Haply  some  hoary-headed  swain  may  say, 
"  Oft  have  we  seen  him  at  the  peep  of  dawn 

Brushing  with  hasty  steps  the  dews  away 
To  meet  the  sun  upon  the  upland  lawn. 


470  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

"  There,  at  the  foot  of  yonder  nodding  beech, 
That  wreathes  its  old  fantastic  roots  so  high, 

His  listless  length  at  noontide  \vould  he  streteh, 
And  pore  upon  the  brook  that  babbles  by. 

"  Hard  by  yon  wood,  now  smiling  as  in  scorn, 
Mattering  his  wayward  fancies,  he  would  rove  ; 

Now  drooping,  woful  wan,  like  one  forlorn, 

Or  crazed  with  care,  or  crossed  in  hopeless  love. 

"  One  morn  I  missed  him  on  the  customed  hill, 
Along  the  heath,  and  near  his  favorite  tree : 

Another  came ;  nor  yet  beside  the  rill. 

Nor  up  the  lawn,  nor  at  the  wood,  was  he : 

"  The  next,  with  dirges  due  in  sad  array, 

Slow  through  the  churchway-path  we  saw  him  borne: 

Approach  and  read  (for  thou  canst  read)  the  lay 
Graved  on  the  stone  beneath  yon  aged  thorn." 

THE    EPITAPH. 

Here  rests  his  head  upon  the  lap  of  earth 
A  youth  to  fortune  and  to  fame  unknown  : 

Fair  Science  frowned  not  on  his  humble  birth; 
And  Melancholy  marked  him  for  her  own. 

Large  was  his  bounty,  and  his  soul  sincere ; 

Heaven  did  a  recompense  as  largely  send : 
He  gave  to  misery  (all  he  had)  a  tear ; 

He  gained  from  Heaven  ('twas  all  he  wished)  a  friend. 

No  farther  seek  his  merits  to  disclose, 

Or  draw  his  frailties  from  their  dread  abode,  — 

(There  they  alike  in  trembling  hope  repose.)  — 
The  bosom  of  his  Father  and  his  God. 


OTHER   DISTINGUISHED    WRITERS    OF 
POETRY  AND    PROSE. 

WILLIAM  SHEXSTOXE. — 1714-1763.    "Schoolmistress"  and  "Pastoral  Ballad." 
WILLIAM  COLLINS.  — 1721-1759.     "Oriental  Eclogues,"  "The  Passions,"  odes 

to  "  Liberty  "  and  •'  Evening,"  and  other  fine  lyrics. 

MARK  AKEXSIDE.  — 1721-1770.    "  Pleasures  of  Imagination." 

THOMAS   WARTOX. —  1728-1790.      "The  Pleasures  of  Melancholy,"  and  other 

poems;  "  History  of  English  Poetry." 

JOSEPH  "\YARTOX.  — 1722-1800.     Brother  of  Thomas,  and  an  inferior  poet. 
JOHN  HORXE.  — 1722-1808.    Dramatist.     "  Doughis,"  and  other  pieces. 


OTHER  DISTINGUISHED   WRITERS.  471 

WILLIAM  MASON.  — 1725-1797.  "The  English  Garden,"  and  "Life  and  Letters 
of  Gray." 

THOMAS  PERCY.  — 1728-1811.     Collected  "  Reliques  of  English  Poetry." 

ERASMUS  DARWIN.  — 1731-1802.     "The  Botanic  Garden,"  a  poem. 

WILLIAM  FALCONER.  — 1732-1769.  "The  Shipwreck;"  and  was  himself  ship- 
wrecked on  "  The  Aurora." 

JAMES  BEATTIE.  — 1735-1803.     "  The  Minstrel,"  and  other  poems. 

JAMES  MACPHERSOX. — 1738-1796.     "  Kingal,"  "Temora,"  and  political  essays. 

CHARLKS  CHURCHILL.  — 1731-1764.  "  The  Rosciad,"  "  Night,"  "  The  Prophecy 
of  Famine,"  and  other  works. 

THOMAS  CHATTERTON.  — 1752-1770.  "Poems  of  Rowley,"  a  priest  of  the  fif- 
teenth century. 

PHILIP  DODDRIDGE.  — 1702-1751.  "Family  Expositor,"  and  other  religious 
works. 

JOHN  WESLEY.  — 1703-1791.  The  most  eminent  of  the  founders  of  Methodism. 
"  Journal  "  and  '•  Hymns." 

THOMAS  REID.  —  1710-1796.  Metaphysician.  "  Inquiry  into  the  Human  Mind," 
and  "  Essays  on  the  Intellectual  and  Active  Powers  of  Man'." 

LAURENCE  STERNE.  —  1713-1768.  "  Tristram  Shandy  "  and  "  The  Sentimental 
Journey."  Uncle  Toby,  Widow  Wadman,  Corporal  Trim,  and  Dr.  Slop,  are  imper- 
ishable characters. 

DAVID  GARRICK.  — 1716-1779.  The  famous  actor.  "  The  Lying  Valet,"  "  The 
Miss  in  her  Teens,"  and  other  plays. 

HORACE  WALPOLE.  — 1717-1791.  "  Castle  of  Otranto,"  and  lively  "  Letters  and 
Memoirs  "  of  the  time. 

HUGH  BLAIR.  — 1718-1800.  "Sermons,"  and  well-known  "Rhetorical  Lec- 
tures." 

GILBERT  WHITE.  — 1720-1793.  "  The  Natural  History  of  Selborne ; "  an  enter- 
taining book. 

SAMUEL  FOOTE.  — 1721-1777.  Celebrated  actor.  "The  Minor,"  "The  Mayor 
of  Garratt,"  and  many  others. 

Sir  WILLIAM  BLACKSTONE.  — 1723-1780.  "  Commentaries  on  the  Laws  of  Eng- 
land." 

ADAM  SMITH.  — 1723-1790.  "  The  Wealth  of  Nations,"  and  "The  Theory  of 
Moral  Sentiments." 

ADAM  FERGUSON.  — 1724-1816.  "History  of  Civil  Society,"  and  "History  of 
the  Roman  Republic." 

JAMES  BOSVVELL.  — 1740-1795.     "  Life  of  Samuel  Johnson ; "  a  model  biography. 
WILLIAM  PALEY.  — 1743-1805.     "Evidences  of  Christianity,"  "Natural  The- 
ology," and  other  religious  works. 


472  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

ALEXANDER    POPE. 

1688-1744. 

The  great  didactic  poet  of  the  lanjrua^e,  called  "  the  prince  of  the  artificial 
school  of  English  poetry."  His  most  celebrated  productions  are  "  The  Rape  of  the 
Lock  "  "  The  Dunciad,""  "Essay  ou  Criticism,"  and  "Essay  oil  Man."  Translated 
the  "Iliad"  ami  "Odyssey." 

ESSAY  OX  MAN. 

EPISTLE    I. 

AWAKE,  my  St.  John !  leave  all  meaner  tilings 
To  low  ambition  and  the  pride  of  kings. 
Let  us  (since  life  can  little  more  supply 
Than  just  to  look  about  us  and  to  die) 
Expatiate  free  o'er  all  this  scene  of  man,  — 
A  mighty  maze,  but  not  without  a  plan ; 
A  wild  where  weeds  and  flowers  promiscuous  shoot, 
Or  garden  tempting  with  forbidden  iruit : 
Together  let  us  beat  this  ample  field, 
Try  what  the  open,  what  the  covert,  yield ; 
The  latent  tracts,  the  giddy  hights,  explore 
Of  all  who  blindly  creep,  or  sightless  soar ; 
Eye  Nature's  walks,  shoot  folly  as  it  flie?, 
And  catch  the  manners  living  as  they  rise  ; 
Laugh  where  we  must,  be  candid  where  we  can, 
But  vindicate  the  ways  of  God  to  man. 

I.  Say  first,  of  God  above,  or  man  below, 
What  can  we  reason  but  from  what  we  know  1 
Of  man,  what  see  we  but  his  station  here, 
From  which  to  reason,  or  to  which  refer  '! 

Through  worlds  unnumbered,  though  the  God  be  known, 

'Tis  ours  to  trace  him  only  in  our  own. 

He  who  through  vast  immensity  can  pierce, 

See  worlds  on  worlds  compose  one  universe, 

Observe  how  system  into  system  runs, 

What  other  planets  circle  other  suns, 

What  varied  being  peoples  every  star, 

May  tell  why  Heaven  has  made  us  as  we  are  : 

But  of  this  frame,  the  bearings  and  the  ties, 

The  strong  connections,  nice  dependencies, 

Gradations  just,  has  thy  pervading  soul 

Looked  through  t  or  can  a  part  contain  the  whole  1 

Is  the  great  chain,  that  draws  all  to  agree, 
And  drawn  supports,  upheld  by  God,  or  thee '! 

II.  Presumptuous  man  !  the  reason  would st  thou  find 
Why  formed  so  weak,  so  little,  and  so  blind? 


ALEXANDER  POPE.  473 

First,  if  thou  canst,  the  harder  reason  gues^,  — 
Why  formed  no  weaker,  blinder,  and  no  less ; 
Ask  of  thy  mother-earth  why  oaks  were  made 
Taller  or  weaker  than  the  Aveeds  they  shade ; 
Or  ask  of  yonder  argent  fields  above 
Why  Jove's  satellites  are  less  than  Jove. 

Of  systems  possible,  if  'tis  contest 
That  Wisdom  Infinite  must  form  the  best, 
Where  all  must  fall,  or  not  coherent  be, 
And  all  that  rises  rise  in  due  degree, 
Then,  in  the  scale  of  reasoning  life,  'tis  plain 
There  must  be  somewhere  such  a  rank  as  man ; 
And  all  the  question  (wrangle  e'er  so  long) 
Is  only  this,  If  God  has  placed  him  wrong  V 
Respecting  man,  whatever  wrong  we  call 
May,  must  be,  right,  as  relative  to  all. 
In  human  works,  though  labored  on  with  pain, 
A  thousand  movements  scarce  one  purpose  gain  : 
In  God's,  one  single  can  its  end  produce, 
Yet  serves  to  second,  too,  some  other  use. 
So  man,  who  here  seems  principal  alone, 
Perhaps  acts  second  to  some  sphere  unknown, 
Touches  some  wheel,  or  verges  to  some  goal : 
'Tis  but  a  part  we  see,  and  not  a  whole. 

When  the  proud  steed  shall  know  why  man  restrains 
His  fiery  course,  or  drives  him  o'er  the  plains; 
When  the  dull  ox,  why  now  he  breaks  the  clod, 
Is  now  a  victim,  and  now  Egypt's  god,  — 
Then  shall  man's  pride  and  dullness  comprehend 
His  actions',  passions',  being's,  use  and  end ; 
Why  doing,  suffering,  checked,  impelled ;  and  why 
This  hour  a  slave,  the  next  a  deity. 

Then  say  not  man's  imperfect,  Heaven  in  fault : 
Say,  rather,  man's  as  perfect  as  he  ought ; 
His  knowledge  measured  to  his  state  and  place; 
His  time  a  moment,  and  a  point  his  space. 
If  to  be  perfect  in  a  certain  sphere, 
What  matter  soon  or  late,  or  here  or  there  ? 
The  blest  to-day  is  as  completely  so 
As  who  began  a  thousand  years  ago. 

III.  Heaven  from  all  creatures  hides  the  book  of  fate, 
All  but  the  page  prescribed,  —  their  present  state ; 
From  brutes  what  men,  from  men  what  spirits,  know ; 
Or  who  could  suffer  being  here  below  ? 
The  lamb  thy  riot  dooms  to  bleed  to-day, 
Had  he  thy  reason,  would  he  skip  and  play  ? 
Pleased  to  the  last,  he  crops  the  flowery  food, 
And  licks  the  hand  just  raised  to  shed  his  blood. 
Oh  blindness  to  the  future  !  kindly  given, 
That  each  may  fill  the  circle  marked  by  Heaven, 
Who  sees  with  equal  eye,  as  God  of  all, 
A  hero  perish,  or  a  sparrow  fall, 


474  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

Atoms  or  systems  into  ruin  hurled, 

And  now  a*  bubble  burst,  and  now  a  world. 

Hope  humbly,  then;   with  trembling  pinions  soar; 
Wait  the  great  teacher,  Death  ;  and  God  adore. 
What  future  bliss,  he  gives  not  thee  to  know, 
But  gives  that  hope  to  be  thy  blessing  now. 
Hope  springs  eternal  in  the  human  breast: 
Man  never  is,  but  always  to  be,  blest. 
The  soul,  uneasy,  and  confined  from  home, 
Rests  and  expatiates  in  a  life  to  come. 

Lo,  the  poor  Indian,  whose  untutored  mind 
Sees  God  in  clouds,  or  hears  him  in  the  wind ! 
His  soul  proud  science  never  taught  to  stray 
Far  as  the  solar  walk  or  milky-way ; 
Yet  simple  Nature  to  his  hope  has  given, 
Ik-hind  the  cloud-topt  hill,  a  humbler  heaven, — 
Some  safer  world  in  depth  of  woods  embraced, 
Some  happier  island  in  the  watery  waste, 
Where  slaves  once  more  their  native  land  behold, 
No  fiends  torment,  no  Christians  thirst  for  gold  : 
To  be  contents  his  natural  desire  ; 
He  asks  no  angel's  wing,  no  seraph's  fire ; 
But  thinks,  admitted  to  that  equal  sky, 
His  faithful  dog  shall  bear  him  company. 

IV.  Go,  wiser  thou !  and  in  thy  scale  of  sense 
Weigh  thy  opinion  against  Providence  ; 

Call  im perfection  what  thou  fanciest  such; 
Say  here  He  gives  too  little,  there  too  much ; 
Destroy  all  creatures  for  thy  sport  or  gust ; 
Yet  say,  if  man's  unhappy,  God's  unjust : 
If  man  alone  engross  not  Heaven's  high  care, 
Alone  made  perfect  here,  immortal  there, 
Snatch  from  his  hand  the  balance  and  the  rod, 
Rejudge  his  justice  ;  be  the  god  of  God ! 

In  pride,  in  reasoning  pride,  our  error  lies  : 
All  quit  their  sphere,  and  rush  into  the  skies. 
Pride  still  is  aiming  at  the  blest  abodes  : 
Men  would  be  angels ;  angels  would  be  gods. 
Aspiring  to  be  gods,  if  angels  fell, 
Aspiring  to  be  angels,  men  rebel ; 
And  who  but  wishes  to  invert  the  laws 
Of  order  sins  against  the  Eternal  Cause. 

V.  Ask  for  what  end  the  heavenly  bodies  shine, 
Earth  for  whose  use.     Pride  answers,  "  'Tis  for  mine 
For  me  kind  Nature  wakes  her  genial  power, 
Suckles  each  herb,  and  spreads  out  every  flower ; 
Annual  for  me  the  grape,  the  rose,  renew 

The  juice  nectareous  and  the  balmy  dew; 
For  me  the  mine  a  thousand  treasures  brings ; 
For  me  health  gushes  from  a  thousand  springs ; 
Seas  roll  to  waft  me,  suns  to  light  me  rise ; 
My  footstool  earth,  my  canopy  the  skies." 


ALEXANDER  POPE.  475 

But  errs  not  Nature  from  this  gracious  end, 
From  burning  suns  when  livid  deaths  descend, 
When  earthquakes  swallow,  or  when  tempests  sweep 
Towns  to  one  grave,  whole  nations  to  the  deep  ? 
"  No,"  'tis  replied :  "  the  first  Almighty  Cause 
Aets  not  by  partial,  but  by  general  laws : 
The  exceptions  few  ;  some  change  since  all  begun  : 
And  what  created  perfect  ?  "     Why,  then,  man  V 
If  the  great  end  be  human  happiness, 
Then  Nature  deviates  ;  and  can  man  do  less  ? 
As  much  that  end  a  constant  course  requires 
Of  showers  and  sunshine  as  of  man's  desires ; 
As  much  eternal  springs  and  cloudless  skies, 
As  men  ibr  ever  temperate,  calm,  and  wise. 
If  plagues  or  earthquakes  break  not  Heaven's  design, 
Why,  then,  a  Borgia  or  a  Catiline  V 
Who  knows  but  He  whose  hand  the  lightning  forms, 
Who  heaves  old  ocean,  and  who  wings  the  storms, 
Pours  fierce  ambition  in  a  Caesar's  mind, 
Or  turns  young  Ammon  loose  to  scourge  mankind  V 
From  pride,  from  pride,  our  very  reasoning  springs  ; 
Account  for  moral  as  for  natural  things : 
Why  charge  we  Heaven  in  those,  in  these  acquit  ? 
In  both,  to  reason  right,  is  to  submit. 

Better  for  us,  perhaps,  it  might  appear, 
Were  there  all  harmony,  all  virtue  here ; 
That  never  air  nor  ocean  felt  the  wind ; 
That  never  passion  discomposed  the  mind : 
But  all  subsists  by  elemental  strife ; 
And  passions  are  the  elements  of  life. 
The  general  order,  since  the  world  began, 
Is  kept  in  Nature,  and  is  kept  in  man. 

VI.  What  would  this  man  ?     Now  upward  will  he  soar, 
And,  little  less  than  angel,  would  be  more  V 
Now  looking  downward,  just  as  grieved,  appears 
To  want  the  strength  of  bulls,  the  fur  of  bears. 
Made  for  his  use  all  creatures,  if  he  call, 
Say  what  their  use,  had  he  the  powers  of  all  ? 
Nature  to  these,  without  profusion,  kind, 
The  proper  organs,  proper  powers,  assigned ; 
Each  seeming  want  compensated,  of  course, — 
Here  with  degrees  of  swiftness,  there  of  force ; 
All  in  exact  proportion  to  the  state ; 
Nothing  to  add,  and  nothing  to  abate. 
Each  beast,  each  insect,  happy  in  its  own. 
Is  Heaven  unkind  to  man,  and  man  alone  ? 
Shall  he  alone,  whom  rational  we  call, 
Be  pleased  with  nothing  if  not  blessed  with  all  ? 
The  bliss  of  man  (could  pride  that  blessing  find) 
Is  not  to  act  or  think  beyond  mankind ; 
No  powers  of  body  or  of  soul  to  share 
But  what  his  nature  and  his  state  can  bear. 


476  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

Why  hrts  not  man  a  microscopic  eye  ? 

For' this  plain  reason  :  man  is  not'a  fly. 

Say  what  the  use,  were  finer  optics  given, 

To  inspect  a  mite,  not  comprehend  the  heaven? 

Or  touch,  if  tremblingly  alive  all  o'er, 

To  smart  and  agonize  at  every  pore  ? 

Or,  quick  effluvia  darting  through  the  brain, 

Die  of  a  rose  in  aromatic  pain  ? 

If  Nature  thundered  in  his  opening  ears, 

And  stunned  him  with  the  music  of  the  spheres, 

How  would  he  wish  that  Heaven  had  left  him  still 

The  whispering  zephyr  and  the  purling  rill ! 

Who  finds  not  Providence  all  good  and  wise, 

Alike  in  what  it  gives  and  what  denies  ? 

VII.  Far  as  creation's  ample  range  extends, 
The  scale  of  sensual,  mental  powers  ascends : 
Mark  how  it  mounts  to  man's  imperial  race, 
From  the  green  myriads  in  the  peopled  grass ! 
What  modes  of  sight  betwixt  each  wide  extreme!  — 
The  mole's  dim  curtain  and  the  lynx'-s  beam ; 

Of  smell,  the  headlong  lioness  between, 
And  hound  sagacious  on  the  tainted  green  ; 
Of  hearing,  from  the  life  that  fills  the  flood 
To  that  which  warbles  through  the  vernal  wood. 
The  spider's  touch  how  exquisitely  fine ! 
Feels  at  each  thread,  and  lives  along  the  line  : 
In  the  nice  bee,  what  sense,  so  subtly  true, 
From  poisonous  herbs  extracts  the  healing  dew  I 
How  instinct  varies  in  the  groveling  swine, 
Compared,  half-reasoning  elephant,  with  thine  1 
'Twixt  that  and  reason  what  a  nice  barrier ! 
For  ever  separate,  yet  for  ever  near  ! 
Remembrance  and  reflection  how  allied  ! 
What  thin  partitions  sense  from  thought  divide  1 
And  middle  natures  —  how  they  long  to  join, 
Yet  never  pass  the  insuperable'line  ! 
Without  this  just  gradation  could  they  be 
Subjected,  these  to  those,  or  all  to  thee  ? 
The  powers  of  all  subdued  by  thee  alone, 
Is  not  thy  reason  all  these  powers  in  one  ? 

VIII.  See  through  this  air,  this  ocean,  and  this  earth, 
All  matter  quick,  and  bursting  into  birth ! 

Above,  how  high  progressive  life  may  jro ! 

Around,  how  wide  !  how  deep  extend  below ! 

Vast  chain  of  being,  which  from  God  began  !  — 

Natures  ethereal,  human,  angel,  man, 

Beast,  bird,  fish,  insect,  what  no  eye  can  see, 

No  glass  can  reach ;  from  infinite  to  thee, 

From  thee  to  nothing.     On  superior  powers 

Were  we  to  press,  inferior  might  on  ours ; 

Or  in  the  full  tveation  leave  a  void, 

AN' here,  one  step  broken,  the  great  scale's  destroyed : 


ALEXANDER  POPE.  477 

From  Nature's  chain  whatever  link  you  strike, 
Tenth,  or  ten  thousandth,  breaks  the  chain  alike. 

And,  if  each  system  in  gradation  roll 
Alike  essential  to  the  amazing  whole, 
The  least  confusion  but  in  one,  not  all 
That  system  only,  but  the  whole,  must  fall. 
Let  earth  unbalanced  from  her  orbit  fly, 
Planets  and  suns  run  lawless  through  the  sky ; 
Let  ruling  angels  from  their  spheres  be  hurled, 
Being  on  being  wrecked,  and  world  on  world,  — 
Heaven's  whole  foundations  to  their  center  nod, 
And  Nature  trembles  to  the  throne  of  God. 
All  this  dread  order  break?  —  For  whom?  for  thee? 
Vile  worm  !     O  madness !  pride  !  impiety  ! 

IX.  What  if  the  foot,  ordained  the  dust  to  tread, 
Or  hand  to  toil,  aspired  to  be  the  head  ? 

What  if  the  head,  the  eye,  or  ear,  repined 
To  serve  mere  engines  to  the  ruling  mind? 
Just  as  absurd  for  any  part  to  claim 
To  be  another  in  this  general  frame ; 
Just  as  absurd  to  mourn  the  tasks  or  pains 
The  great  directing  Mind  of  all  ordains. 

All  are  but  parts  of  one  stupendous  whole, 
Whose  body  Nature  is,  and  God  the  soul : 
That,  changed  through  all,  and  yet  in  all  the  same, 
Great  in  the  earth  as  in  the  ethereal  frame, 
Wrarms  in  the  sun,  refreshes  in  the  breeze, 
Glows  in  the  stars,  and  blossoms  in  the  trees, 
Lives  through  all  life,  extends  through  all  extent, 
Spreads  undivided,  operates  unspent, 
Breathes  in  our  soul,  informs  our  mortal  part,  — 
As  full,  as  perfect,  in  a  hair  as  heart ; 
As  full,  as  perfect,  in  vile  man  that  mourns, 
As  the  rapt  seraph  that  adores  and  burns  : 
To  him  no  high,  no  low,  no  great,  no  small ; 
He  fills,  he  bounds,  connects,  and  equals  all. 

X.  Cease,  then,  nor  order  imperfection  name  : 
Our  proper  bliss  depends  on  what  we  blame. 
Know  thy  own  point :  This  kind,  this  due  degree, 
Of  blindness,  weakness,  Heaven  bestows  on  thee. 
Submit.     In  this  or  any  other  sphere 

Secure  to  be  as  blest  as  thou  canst  bear ; 

Safe  in  the  hand  of  one  disposing  Power, 

Or  in  the  natal  or  the  mortal  hour. 

All  nature  is  but  art,  unknown  to  thee ; 

All  chance,  direction,  which  thou  canst  not  see  ; 

All  discord,  harmony  not  understood; 

All  partial  evil,  universal  good. 

And  spite  of  pride,  in  erring  reason's  spite, 

One  truth  is  clear :  Whatever  is,  is  right. 


478  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


EPISTLE     II. 

I.  KNOW  then  thyself;  presume  not  God  to  scan  I 
The  proper  study  of  mankind  is  man. 
Placed  on  this  isthmus  of  a  middle  state, 
A  being  darkly  wise  and  rudely  great ; 
With  too  much  knowledge  for  the  skeptic's  side, 
With  too  much  weakness  for  the  stoic's  pride, 
He  hangs  between  ;  in  doubt  to  act  or  rest ; 
In  doubt  to  deem  himself  a  god  or  beast ; 
In  doubt  his  mind  or  body  to  prefer, 
Born  but  to  die,  and  reasoning  but  to  err; 
Alike  in  ignorance,  his  reason  such, 
Whether  he  thinks  too  little  or  too  much ; 
Chaos  of  thought  and  passion,  all  confused, 
Still  by  himself  abused  or  disabused ; 
Created  half  to  rise,  and  half  to  fall ; 
Great  lord  of  all  things,  yet  a  prey  to  all ; 
Sole  judge  of  truth,  in  endless  error  hurled; 


The  glory,  jest,  and  riddle  of  the  world  ! 

H'ionpp.  o-7iiflf>si 


.  »  Jes 
Go,  wondrous  creature  !  mount  where  Science  guides; 


Go  measure  earth,  weigh  air,  and  state  the  tides  ; 
Instruct  the  planets  in  what  orbs  to  run  ; 
Correct  old  Time,  and  regulate  the  sun ; 
Go  soar  with  Plato  to  the  empyreal  sphere, 
To  the  first  good,  first  perfect,  and  first  fair; 
Or  tread  the  mazy  round  his  followers  trod, 
And  quitting  sense  call  imitating  God, 
As  Eastern  priests  in  giddy  circles  run, 
And  turn  their  heads  to  imitate  the  sun ; 
Go,  teach  Eternal  Wisdom  how  to  rule; 
Then  drop  into  thyself,  and  be  a  fool ! 

Superior  beings*  when  of  late  they  saw 
A  mortal  man  unfold  all  Nature's  law, 
Admired  such  wisdom  in  an  earthly  shape, 
And  showed  a  Newton  as  we  show  an  ape. 

Could  he,  whose  rules  the  rapid  comet  bind, 
Describe  or  fix  one  movement  of  his  mind, 
Who  saw  its  fires  here  rise  and  there  descend, 
Explain  his  own  beginning  or  his  end  ? 
Alas,  what  wonder  !  man's  superior  part 
Unchecked  may  rise,  and  climb  from  art  to  art ; 
But,  when  his  own  great  work  is  but  begun, 
What  reason  weaves,  by  passion  is  undone. 

Trace  Science,  then,  with  Modesty  thy  guide  ; 
First  strip  off  all  her  equipage  of  pride ; 
Deduct  what  is  but  vanity  or  dress, 
Or  learning's  luxury,  or  idleness, 
Or  tricks  to  show  the  stretch  of  human  brain,  — 
]\Iere  curious  pleasure,  or  ingenious  pain  ; 
Expunge  the  whole,  or  lop  the  excrescent  parts 
Of  all  our  vices  have  created  arts  ; 


ALEXANDER   POPE.  479 

Then  see  how  little  the  remaining  sum, 

Which  served  the  past,  and  must  the  times  to  come  1 

II.  Two  principles  in  human  nature  reign,  — 
Self-love  to  urge,  and  reason  to  restrain. 
Nor  this  a  good,  nor  that  a  bad,  we  call ; 
(Each  works  its  end,  —  to  move  or  govern  all ;) 
And  to  their  proper  operation  still 
Ascribe  all  good  ;  to  their  improper,  ill. 
Self-love,  the  spring  of  motion,  acts  the  soul : 
Reason's  comparing  balance  rules  the  whole. 
Man,  but  for  that,  no  action  could  attend  ; 
And,  but  for  this,  were  active  to  no  end  : 
Fixed  like  a  plant  on  his  peculiar  spot, 
To  draw  nutrition,  propagate,  and  rot ; 
Or,  meteor-like,  flame  lawless  through  the  void, 
Destroying  others,  by  himself  destroyed. 
Most  strength  the  moving  principle  requires; 
Active  its  task,  it  prompts,  impels,  inspires. 
Sedate  and  quiet  the  comparing  lies, 
Formed  but  to  check,  deliberate,  and  advise. 
Self-love  still  stronger  as  its  object's  nigh ; 
Reason's  at  distance,  and  in  prospect,  lie  : 
That  sees  immediate  good  by  present  sense; 
Reason,  the  future  and  the  consequence. 
Thicker  than  arguments  temptations  throng ; 
At  best  more  watchful  this,  but  that  more  strong. 
The  action  of  the  stronger  to  suspend, 
Reason  still  use,  to  reason  still  attend. 
Attention,  habit  and  experience  gains : 
Each  strengthens  reason,  and  self-love  restrains. 
Let  subtle  schoolmen  teach  these  friends  to  fight, 
(More  studious  to  divide  than  to  unite,) 
And  grace  and  virtue,  sense  and  reason,  split 
With  all  the  rash  dexterity  of  wit. 
Wits,  just  like  fools,  at  war  about  a  name, 
Have  full  as  oft  no  meaning,  or  the  same. 
Self-love  and  reason  to  one  end  aspire,  — 
Pain  their  aversion,  pleasure  their  desire : 
But  greedy  that,  its  object  would  devour ; 
This  taste  the  honey,  and  not  wound  the  flower : 
Pleasure,  or  wrong  or  rightly  understood, 
Our  greatest  evil  or  our  greatest  good. 

III.  Modes  of  self-love  the  passions  we  may  call : 
Tis  real  good,  or  seeming,  moves  them  all. 
But  since  not  every  goocf  we  can  divide, 
And  Reason  bids  us  for  our  own  provide, 
Passions,  though  selfish,  if  their  means  be  fair, 
List  under  Reason,  and  deserve  her  care  : 
Those  that,  imparted,  court  a  nobler  aim, 
Exalt  their  kind,  and  take  some  virtue's  name. 

In  lazy  apathy  let  stoics  boast 
Their  virtue  fixed ;  'tis  fixed  as  in  a  frost, 


480  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Contracted  all,  retiring  to  the  breast : 
But  strength  of  mind  is  exercise,  not  rest. 
The  rising  tempest  puts  iiract  the  soul : 
Parts  it  may  ravage,  but  preserves  the  whole. 
On  Life's  vast  ocean  diversely  we  sail, 
Reason  the  chart,  but  Passion  is  the  gale. 
Nor  God  alone  in  the  still  calm  we  find : 
lie  mounts  the  storm,  and  walks  upon  the  wind. 

Passions,  like  elements,  though  born  to  fight, 
Yet  mixed  and  softened,  in  his  work  unite  : 
These  'tis  enough  to  temper  and  employ  ; 
But  what  composes  man,  can  man  destroy  ? 
Suffice  that  Reason  keep  to  Nature's  road, 
Subject,  compound  them,  follow  her  and  God. 

Love,  Hope,  and  Joy,  fair  Pleasure's  smiling  train ; 
Hate,  Fear,  and  Grief,  the  family  of  Pain,  — 
These,  mixed  with  art,  and  to  due  bounds  confined, 
Make  and  maintain  the  balance  of  the  mind  : 
The  lights  and  shades,  whose  well-accorded  strife 
Gives  all  the  strength  and  color  of  our  life. 

Pleasures  are  ever  in  our  hands  and  eyes ; 
And,  when  in  act  they  cease,  in  prospect  rise  : 
Present  to  grasp,  and  future  still  to  find, 
The  whole  employ  of  body  and  of  mind, 
All  spread  their  charms,  but  charm  not  all  alike. 
On  different  senses,  different  objects  strike  : 
Hence  different  passions  more  or  less  inflame, 
As  strong  or  weak,  the  organs  of  the  frame ; 
And  hence  one  master-passion  in  the  breast, 
Like  Aaron's  serpent,  swallows  up  the  rest. 

As  man,  perhaps,  the  moment  of  his  breath, 
Receives  the  lurking  principle  of  death  ; 
The  young  disease,  which  must  subdue  at  length, 
Grows  with  his  growth,  and  strengthens  with  his  strength : 
So,  cast  and  mingled  with  his  very  frame, 
The  mind's  disease,  its  ruling  passion  came : 
Each  vital  humor  which  should  feed  the  whole 
Soon  flows  to  this  in  body  and  in  soul : 
Whatever  warms  the  heart  or  fills  the  head 
As  the  mind  opens,  and  its  functions  spread. 
Imagination  plies  her  dangerous  art, 
And  pours  it  all  upon  the  peccant  part. 

Nature  its  mother,  habit  is  its  nurse ; 
Wit,  spirit,  faculties,  but  make  it  worse : 
Reason  itself  but  gives  it  edge  and  power, 
As  heaven's  blest  beam  turns  vinegar  more  sour. 
We  wretched  subjects,  though  no  lawful  sway, 
In  this  weak  queen  some  favorite  still  obey : 
Ah !  if  she  lend  not  arms  as  well  as  rules, 
What  can  she  more  than  tell  us  we  are  fools ; 
Teach  us  to  mourn  our  nature,  not  to  mend ; 
A  sharp  accuser,  but  a  helpless  friend ; 


ALEXANDER  POPE. 

Or  from  a  judge  turn  pleader,  to  persuade 
The  choice  we  make,  or  justify  it  made  V 
Proud  of  an  easy  conquest  all  along, 
She  but  removes  weak  passions  for  the  strong : 
So,  when  small  humors  gather  to  a  gout, 
The  doctor  fancies  he  has  driven  them  out. 

Yes,  Nature's  road  must  ever  be  preferred : 
Reason  is  hare  no  guide,  but  still  a  guard. 
'Tis  hers  to  rectify,  not  overthrow, 
And  treat  this  passion  more  as  friend  than  foe : 
A  mightier  power  the  strong  direction  sends, 
And  several  men  impels  to  several  ends : 
Like  varying  winds,  by  other  passions  tost, 
This  drives  them  constant  to  a  certain  coast. 
Let  power  or  knowledge,  gold  or  glory,  please, 
Or  (oft  more  strong  than  all)  the  love  of  ease, 
Through  life  'tis  followed,  e'en  at  life's  expense. 
The  merchant's  toil,  the  sage's  indolence, 
The  monk's  humility,  the  hero's  pride,  — 
All,  all,  alike,  find  Reason  on  their  side. 

The  Eternal  Art,  educing  good  from  ill, 
Grafts  on  this  passion  our  best  principle : 
Tis  thus  the  mercury  of  man  is  fixed ; 
Strong  grows  the  virtue  with  his  nature  mixed  ; 
The  dross  cements  what  else  were  too  refined ; 
And,  in  one  interest,  body  acts  with  mind. 

As  fruits,  ungrateful  to  the  planter's  care, 
On  savage  stocks  inserted  learn  to  bear; 
The  surest  virtues  thus  from  passions  shoot, 
Wild  Nature's  vigor  working  at  the  root. 
What  crops  of  wit  and  honesty  appear 
From  spleen,  from  obstinacy,  hate,  or  fear ! 
See  anger,  zeal  and  fortitude  supply; 
Even  avarice,  prudence ;  sloth,  philosophy ; 
Lust,  through  some  certain  strainers  well  refined, 
Is  gentle  love,  and  charms  all  womankind; 
Envy,  to  which  the  ignoble  mind's  a  slave, 
Is  emulation  in  the  learned  or  brave : 
Nor  virtue,  male  or  female,  can  we  name, 
But  what  will  grow  on  pride,  or  grow  on  shame. 

Thus  Nature  gives  us  (let  it  check  our  pride) 
The  virtue  nearest  to  our  vice  allied : 
Reason  the  bias  turns  to  good  from  ill, 
And  Nero  reigns  a  Titus  if  he  will. 
The  fiery  soul  abhorred  in  Catiline, 
In  Djcius  charms,  in  Curtius  is  divine : 
The  same  ambition  can  destroy  or  save, 
An  1  makes  a  patriot  as  it  makes  a  knave. 

IV.  This  light  and  darkness  in  our  chaos  joined, 
What  shall  divide?     The  God  within  the  mind, 
Extremes  in  Nature  equal  ends  produce  : 
In  man  they  join  to  some  mysterious  use  ; 
31 


482  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Though  each  by  turns  the  other's  bounds  invade, 
As,  in  some  well-wrought  picture,  light  and  shade ; 
And  oft  so  mixed,  the  difference  is  too  nice 
Where  ends  the  virtue,  or  begins  the  vice. 
Fools  !  who  from  hence  into  the  notion  fall 
That  vice  and  virtue  there  is  none  at  all. 
If  white  and  black  blend,  soften,  and  unite 
A  thousand  ways,  is  there  no  black  or  white? 
Ask  your  own  heart,  and  nothing  is  so  plain  : 
'Tis  to  mistake  them  costs  the  time  and  pain. 

V.  Vice  is  a  monster  of  so  frightful  mien, 
As,  to  be  hated,  needs  but  to  be  seen ; 

Yet  seen  too  oft,  familiar  with  her  face, 

We  first  endure,  then  pity,  then  embrace. 

But  where  the  extreme  of  vice,  was  ne'er  agreed. 

Ask  where's  the  North  ?    At  York,  'tis  on  the  Tweed; 

In  Scotland,  at  the  Orcades  ;  and  there, 

At  Greenland,  Zembla,  or  the  Lord  knows  where : 

No  creature  owns  it  in  the  first  degree, 

But  thinks  his  neighbor  farther  gone  than  he,  — 

E'en  those  who  dwell  beneath  its  very  zone, 

Or  never  feel  the  rage,  or  never  own. 

What  happier  natures  shrink  at  with  affright 

The  hard  inhabitant  contends  is  right. 

VI.  Virtuous  and  vicious  every  man  must  be ; 
Few  in  the  extreme,  but  all  in  the  degree : 
The  rogue  and  fool  by  fits  is  fair  and  wise ; 
And  e'en  the  best,  by  fits,  what  they  despise. 
'Tis  but.  by  parts  we  follow  good  or  ill ; 

For,  vice  or  virtue,  self  directs  it  still. 
Each  individual  seeks  a  several  goal  ; 

VII.  But  Heaven's  great  view  is  one,  and  that  the  whole. 
That  counter-works  each  folly  and  caprice  ; 

That  disappoints  the  effects  of  every  vice  ; 
That  happy  frailties  to  all  ranks  applied,  — 
Shame  to  the  virgin,  to  the  matron  pride, 
Fear  to  the  statesman,  rashness  to  the  chief, 
To  kings  presumption,  and  to  crowds  belief; 
That  virtue's  ends  from  vanity  can  raise, 
Which  seeks  no  interest,  no  reward  but  praise, 
And  build  on  wants,  and  on  defects  of  mind, 
The  joy,  the  peace,  the  glory,  of  mankind. 

Heaven,  forming  each  on  other  to  depend, 
(A  master,  or  a  servant,  or  a  friend,) 
Bids  each  on  other  for  assistance  call, 
Till  one  man's  weakness  grows  the  strength  of  all. 
Wants,  frailties,  passions,  closer  still  ally° 
The  common  interest,  or  endear  the  tie. 
To  these  we  owe  true  friendship,  love  sincere, 
Each  home-felt  joy  that  life  inherits  here: 
Yet  from  the  same  we  learn,  in  its  decline, 
Those  joys,  those  loves,  those  interests,  to  resign ; 


JONATHAN  SWIFT.  483 

Taught  half  by  reason,  half  by  mere  decay, 
To  welcome  death,  and  calmly  pass  away. 

Whate'er  the  passion,  knowledge,  fame,  or  pelf, 
Not  one  will  change  his  neighbor  with  himself. 
The  learned  is  happy  Nature  to  explore ; 
The  fool  is  happy  that  he  knows  no  more ; 
The  rich  is  happy  in  the  plenty  given ; 
The  poor  contents  him  with  the  care  of  Heaven. 
See  the  blind  beggar  dance,  the  cripple  sing,    • 
The  sot  a  hero,  lunatic  a  king, 
The  starving  chemist  in  his  golden  views 
Supremely  blest,  the  poet  in  his  Muse. 

See  some  strange  comfort  every  state  attend, 
And  pride  bestowed  on  all,  a  common  friend : 
See  some  fit  passion  every  age  supply ; 
Hope  travels  through,  nor  quits  us  when  we  die. 

Behold  the  child,  by  Nature's  kindly  law, 
Pleased  with  a  rattle,  tickled  with  a  straw ! 
Some  livelier  plaything  gives  his  youth  delight, 
A  little  louder,  but  as  empty  quite  1 
Scarfs,  garters,  gold,  amuse  his  riper  stage ; 
And  beads  and  prayer-books  are  the  toys  of  age : 
Pleased  with  this  bauble  still,  as  that  before ; 
Till,  tired,  he  sleeps,  and  Life's  poor  play  is  o'er. 
Meanwhile  opinion  gilds  with  varying  rays 
Those  painted  clouds  that  beautify  our  days : 
Each  want  of  happiness  by  hope  supplied, 
And  each  vacuity  of  sense  by  pride  : 
These  build  as  fast  as  knowledge  can  destroy ; 
In  Folly's  cup  still  laughs  the  bubble,  Joy ; 
One  prospect  lost,  another  still  we  gain ; 
And  not  a  vanity  is  given  in  vain ; 
E'en  mean  self-love  becomes,  by  force  divine, 
The  scale  to  measure  others'  wants  by  thine. 
See !  and  confess,  one  comfort  still  must  rise :        * 
'Tis  this,  —  though  man's  a  fool,  yet  God  is  wise. 


JONATHAN    SWIFT. 

1667-1745. 

Author  of  "  Tale  of  a  Tub,"  "  Gulliver's  Travels,"  "  The  Drapier  Letters,"  and 
many  other  minor  works  of  prose  and  poetry.  With  almost  infinite  scorn  and  con- 
tempt for  the  pretentious  claims  of  king,  court,  and  people,  the  assumptions  of  the 
would-be  great  and  learned,  he  towers,  compared  with  other  writers,  a  Brobding- 
nag  of  bitter  irony,  fierce  sarcasm,  and  savage  wit,  among  harmless  Liliputians. 


484  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 


GULLIVER'S    TRAVELS    TO    BROBDINGNAG. 

THE  frequent  labors  I  underwent  every  day  made  in  a  few  weeks 
a  very  considerable  change  in  my  health.  The  more  my  master 
got  by  me,  the  more  insatiable  he  grew.  I  had  quite  lost  my 
stomach,  and  was  quite  reduced  to  a  skeleton.  The  farmer  observ- 
ing it,  and  concluding  I  must  soon  die,  resolved  to  make  as  goo  I 
a  hand  of  me  as  he  could.  While  he  was  thus  reasoning  and  re- 
solving with  himself,  a  sardral,  or  gentleman  usher,  came  from 
court,  commanding  my  master  to  carry  me  immediately  thither  for 
the  diversion  of  the  queen  and  her  ladies.  Some  of  the  latter  had 
already  been  to  see  me,  and  reported  strange  things  of  my  beauty, 
behavior,  and  good  sense.  Her  Majesty,  and  those  who  attended 
her,  were  beyond  measure  delighted  with  my  demeanor.  I  fell  011 
my  knees,  and  begged  the  honor  of  kissing  her  imperial  foot ;  but 
this  gracious  princess  held  out  her  little  finger  towards  me  after 
I  was  set  on  the  table,  which  I  embraced  in  both  my  arms,  and 
put  the  tip  of  it  with  the  utmost  respect  to  my  lip.  She  asked 
me  some  general  questions  about  my  country  and  my  travels, 
which  I  answered  as  distinctly  and  in  as  few  words  as  I  could. 
She  asked  whether  I  could  be  content  to  live  at  court.  I  bowed 
down  to  the  board  of  the  table,  and  humbly  answered,  that  I  was 
my  master's  slave ;  but,  if  I  were  at  my  own  disposal,  I  should 
be  proud  to  devote  my  life  to  her  Majest}T's  service.  She  then 
asked  my  master  whether  he  was  willing  to  sell  me  at  a  good 
price.  He,  who  apprehended  that  I  could  not  live  a  month,  was 
ready  enough  to  part  with  me,  and  demanded  a  thousand  pieces 
of  gold,  which  were  ordered  him  on  the  spot;  each  piece  being 
about  the  bigness  of  eight  hundred  moidores.  But  allowing  for 
the  proportion  of  all  things  between  that  country  and  Europe, 
and  the  high  price  of  gold  among  them,  this  was  hardly  so  great 
a  sum  as  a  thousand  guineas  would  be  in  England.  I  then  said 
to  the  queen,  since  I  was  now  her  Majesty's  most  humble  creature 
and  vassal,  I  must  beg  the  favor  that  Glumdalclitch,  who  had 
always  tended  me  with  so  much  care  and  kindness,  and  knew  how 
to  do  it  so  well,  might  be  admitted  into  the  service,  and  continue 
to  be  my  nurse  and  instructor.  Her  Majesty  agreed  to  my  petition, 
and  easily  got  the  farmer's  consent,  who  was  glad  enough  to  have 
his  daughter  preferred  at  court;  and  the  poor  girl  herself  was  not 
able  to  hide  her  joy.  My  late  master  withdrew,  bidding  me  fare- 
well, and  saying  lie  had  left  me  in  a  good  service;  to  which  I 
replied  not  a  word,  only  making  him  a  slight  bow. 

The  queen  observed  my  coldness,  and,  when  the  farmer  was 
gone  out  of  the  apartment,  asked  me  the  reason.  I  made  bold  to 
tell  her  Majesty  that  I  owed  no  other  obligation  to  my  late  master 


JONATHAN  SWIFT.  485 

than  his  not  dashing  out  the  brains  of  a  poor  harmless  creature, 
found  by  chance  in  his  fields ;  which  obligation  was  amply  recom- 
pensed by  the  gain  he  had  made  in  showing  me  through  half  the 
kingdom,  and  the  price  he  had  now  sold  me  for ;  that  the  life  I 
had  since  led  was  laborious  enough  to  kill  an  animal  of  tea  times 
my  strength ;  that  my  health  was  much  impaired  by  the  continual 
drudgery  of  entertaining  the  rabble  every  hour  of  the  day ;  and 
that,  if  my  master  had  not  thought  my  life  in  danger,  her  Majesty 
would  not  have  got  so  cheap  a  bargain :  but  as  I  was  out  of  all 
fear  of  being  ill  treated  under  the  protection  of  so  great  and  good 
an  empress,  the  ornament  of  nature,  the  darling  of  the  world, 
the  delight  of  her  subjects,  the  phoenix  of  the  creation,  so  I 
hoped  my  late  master's  apprehensions  would  appear  to  be  ground- 
less ;  for  I  had  already  found  my  spirits  revive  by  the  influence  of 
her  most  august  presence.  This  was  the  sum  of  my  speech, 
delivered  with  great  improprieties  and  hesitation.  The  latter 
part  was  altogether  framed  in  the  style  peculiar  to  that  people, 
whereof  I  learned  some  phrases  from  Glumdalclitch  while  she 
was  carrying  me  to  court. 

The  queen,  giving  great  allowance  for  my  defectiveness  in 
speaking,  was,  however,  surprised  at  so  much  wit  and  good  sense 
in  so  diminutive  an  animal.  She  took  me  in  her  own  hand,  and 
carried  me  to  the  king,  who  was  then  retired  to  his  cabinet.  His 
Majesty,  a  prince  of  much  gravity  and  austere  countenance,  not 
well  observing  my  shape  at  first  view,  asked  the  queen,  after  a 
cold  manner,  how  long  it  was  since  she  grew  fond  of  a  splacknttck  ; 
for  such,  it  seems,  he  took  me  to  be  as  I  lay  upon  my  breast  in 
her  Majesty*,s  right  hand.  But  this  princess,  who  has  an  infinite 
deal  of  wit  and  humor,  set  me  gently  on  my  feet  upon  the  scru- 
toire,  and  commanded  me  to  give  his  Majesty  an  account  of  my- 
self; which  I  did  in  a  very  few  words:  and  Glumdalclitch,  who 
attended  at  the  cabinet-door,  and  could  not  endure  I  should  be 
out  of  her  sight,  being  admitted,  confirmed  all  that  had  passed 
from  my  arrival  at  her  father's  house. 

The  king,  although  he  is  as  learned  a  person  as  any  in  his 
dominions  (having  been  educated  in  the  study  of  philosophy,  and 
particularly  mathematics),  yet  when  he  observed  my  shape  exactly, 
and  saw  me  walk  erect,  before  I  began  to  speak,  conceived  I  might 
be  a  piece  of  clock-work  (which  has  in  that  country  arrived  to  a 
very  great  perfection)  contrived  by  some  ingenious  person.  But 
when  he  heard  my  voice,  and  found  what  I  delivered  to  be  regular 
and  rational,  he  could  not  conceal  his  astonishment.  He  was  by 
no  means  satisfied  with  the  relation  I  gave  him  of  the  manner  I 
came  into  his  kingdom,  but  thought  it  a  story  concerted  between 
Glumdalclitch.  and  her  father,  who  had  taught  me  a  set  of  words  to 
make  me  sell  at  a  better  price.  Upon  this  imagination  he  put 


486  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

several  other  questions  to  me,  and  still  received  rational  answers, 
no  otherwise  defective  than  by  a  foreign  accent  and  an  imperfect 
knowledge  of  the  language,  with  some  rustic  phrases  which  I  had 
learned  at  the  farmer's  house,  and  did  not  suit  the  polite  stj'le  of 
a  court. 

His  Majesty  sent  for  three  great  scholars,  who  were  then  in  the 
weekly  waiting  according  to  the  custom  in  that  country.  These 
gentlemen,  after  they  had  examined  my  shape  with  much  nicety, 
were  of  different  opinions  concerning  me.  They  all  agreed  that 
I  could  not  be  produced  according  to  the  regular  laws  of  Nature, 
because  I  was  not  framed  with  a  capacity  of  preserving  my  life, 
either  by  swiftness,  or  climbing  of  trees,  or  digging  holes  in  the 
earth.  They  observed  by  my  teeth,  which  they  viewed  with 
great  exactness,  that  I  was  a  carnivorous  animal ;  yet  most  quad- 
rupeds being  an  overmatch  for  me,  and  field-mice,  with  some 
others,  too  nimble,  they  could  not  imagine  how  I  sholild  be  able  to 
support  myself,  unless  I  fed  upon  snails  and  other  insects,  which 
they  oifered  by  many  learned  arguments  to  evince  that  I  could 
not  possibly  do.  One  of  these  virtuosi  seemed  to  think  that  I 
might  be  an  embryo  or  abortive  birth  ;  but  this  opinion  was  re- 
jected by  the  other  two,  who  observed  my  limbs  to  be  perfect 
and  finished,  and  that  I  had  lived  several  years,  as  was  manifest 
from  my  beard,  the  stumps  whereof  they  plainly  discovered 
through  a  magnifying-glass.  They  would  not  allow  me  to  be 
a  dwarf,  because  my  littleness  was  beyond  all  degrees  of  com- 
parison ;  for  the  queen's  favorite  dwarf,  the  smallest  ever  known 
in  the  kingdom,  was  nearly  thirty  feet  high.  After  much  debate, 
they  concluded  unanimously  that  I  was  only  relplumsscalcath,  — 
which  is,  interpreted  literally,  lusus  natures ;  a  determination 
exactly  agreeable  to  the  modern  philosophy  of  Europe,  whose 
professors,  disdaining  the  old  evasion  of  occult  causes,  whereby 
the  followers  of  Aristotle  endeavored  in  vain  to  disguise  their 
ignorance,  have  invented  this  wonderful  solution  of  all  difficulties, 
to  the  unspeakable  advancement  of  human  knowledge. 

After  this  decisive  conclusion,  I  entreated  to  be  heard  a  word  or 
two.  I  applied  myself  to  the  king,  and  assured  his  Majesty  that 
I  came  from  a  country  which  abounded  with  several  millions  of 
both  sexes  and  of  my  own  stature  ;  where  the  animals,  trees,  and 
houses  were  all  in  proportion ;  and  where,  by  consequence,  I  might 
be  as  able  to  defend  myself,  and  to  find  sustenance,  as  any  of  his 
Majesty's  subjects  could  do  here:  which  I  took  fora  full  answer  to 
those  gentlemen's  arguments.  To  this  they  only  replied  by  a 
smile  of  contempt,  saying  that  the  farmer  had  instructed  me 
very  well  in  my  lesson.  The  king,  who  had  a  much  better 
understanding,  dismissing  his  learned  men,  sent  for  the  fanner, 
who,  by  good  fortune,  was  not  yet  gone  out  of  town.  Having, 


JONATHAN  SWIFT.  487 

therefore,  first  examined  him  privately,  and  then  confronted  him 
with 'me  and  the  young  girl,  his  Majesty  began  to  think  that  what 
we  told  him  might  possibly  be  true.  He  desired  the  queen  to 
order  that  a  particular  care  should  be  taken  of  me  ;  and  was  of 
opinion  that  Glumdalclitch  should  still  continue  in  her  office  of 
tending  me,  because  he  observed  we  had  great  affection  for  each 
other.  A  convenient  apartment  was  provided  for  her  at  court : 
she  had  a  sort  of  governess  appointed  to  take  care  of  her  educa- 
tion, a  maid  to  dress  her,  and  two  other  servants  for  menial  offices ; 
but  the  care  of  me  was  wholly  appropriated  to  herself.  The  queen 
commanded  her  own  cabinet-maker  to  contrive  a  box  that  might 
serve  me  for  a  bed-chamber,  after  the  model  that  Glumdalclitch 
and  I  should  agree  upon.  This  man  was  a  most  ingenious  artist ; 
and,  according  to  my  direction,  in  three  weeks  finished  for  me  a 
wooden  chamber  of  sixteen  feet  square,  and  twelve  high,  with 
sash-windows,  a  door,  and  two  closets,  like  a  London  bed-chamber. 
The  board  that  made  the  ceiling  was  to  be  lifted  up  and  down  by 
two  hinges,  to  put  in  a  bed  ready  furnished  by  her  Majesty's 
upholsterer,  which  Glumdalclitch  took  out  every  day  to  air,  made 
it  with  her  own  hands,  and,  letting  it  down  at  night,  locked  up 
the  roof  over  me.  A  nice  workman  who  was  famous  for  little 
curiosities  undertook  to  make  me  two  chairs,  with  backs  and 
frames  of  a  substance  not  unlike  ivory,  and  two  tables,  with  a 
cabinet  to  put  my  things  in.  The  room  was  quilted  on  all  sides, 
as  well  as  the  floor  and  the  ceiling,  to  prevent  any  accident  from 
the  carelessness  of  those  who  carried  me,  and  to  break  the  force 
of  a  jolt  when  I  went  in  a  coach.  I  desired  a  lock  to  my  door  to 
prevent  rats  and  mice  from  coming  in.  The  smith,  after  several 
attempts,  made  the  smallest  that  ever  was  seen  among  them ;  for 
I  have  known  a  larger  at  the  gate  of  a  gentleman's  house  in 
England.  I  made  a  shift  to  keep  the  key  in  a  pocket  of  my  own, 
fearing  Glumdalclitch  might  lose  it.  The  queen  likewise  ordered 
the  thinnest  silks  that  could  be  gotten  to  make  me  clothes,  —  not 
much  thicker  than  an  English  blanket ;  very  cumbrous  till  I  was 
accustomed  to  them.  They  were  after  the  fashion  of  the  king- 
dom, partly  resembling  the  Persian,  and  partly  the  Chinese  ;  and 
are  a  very  grave  and  decent  habit. 

The  queen  became  so  fond  of  my  company,  that  she  could  not 
dine  without  me.  I  had  a  table  placed  upon  the  same  at  which 
her  Majesty  ate  (just  at  her  elbow),  and  a  chair  to  sit  on.  Glum- 
dalclitch stood  on  a  stool  on  the  floor,  near  my  table,  to  assist  and 
take  care  of  me.  I  had  an  entire  set  of  silver  dishes  and  plates, 
and  other  necessaries,  which,  in  proportion  to  those  of  the  queen, 
were  not  much  bigger  than  those  in  a  London  toy-shop  for  the 
furniture  of  a  baby-house:  these  my  little  nurse  kept  in  her 
pocket  in  a  silver  box,  and  gave  me  at  meals  as  I  wanted  them, 


488  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

always  cleaning  them  herself.  No  person  dined  with  the  queen  but 
the  two  princesses  royal,  —  the  eldest  sixteen  years  old,  and  the 
younger  at  that  time  thirteen  and  3  month.  Her  Majesty  used  to 
put  a  bit  of  meat  upon  one  of  my  dishes,  out  of  which  I  carved 
for  myself:  and  her  diversion  was  to  see  me  eat  in  miniature ;  for 
the  queen  (who  had  indeed  but  a  weak  stomach)  took  up  at  one 
mouthful  as  much  as  a  dozen  English  farmers  could  eat  at  a 
meal,  which  to  me  was  for  some  time  a  very  nauseous  sight.  She 
would  craunch  the  wing  of  a  lark,  bones  and  all,  between  her 
teeth,  although  it  were  nine  times  as  large  as  that  of  a  full-grown 
turkey ;  and  put  a  bit  of  bread  in  her  mouth  as  large  as  two 
twelvepenny-1  oaves.  She  drank  out  of  a  golden  cup  above  a 
hogshead  at  a  draught.  Her  knives  were  twice  as  long  as  a 
scythe  set  straight  upon  the  handle :  the  spoons,  forks,  and  other 
instruments,  were  all  in  the  same  proportion.  I  remember  when 
Glumdalclitch  carried  me,  out  of  curiosity,  to  see  some  of  the 
tables  at  court,  where  ten  or  a  dozen  of  those  enormous  knives 
and  forks  were  lifted  up  together:  I  thought  I  had  never  till  then 
beheld  so  terrible  a  sight. 

It  is  the  custom  that  every  Wednesday  (which,  as  I  have  ob- 
served, is  their  sabbath)  the  king  and  queen,  with  the  royal  issue 
of  both  sexes,  dine  together  in  the  apartment  of  his  Majest3r,  to 
whom  I  was  now  become  a  great  favorite  ;  and  at  these  times  my 
little  chair  and  table  were  placed  at  his  left  hand  before  one  of 
the  salt-cellars.  This  prince  took  a  pleasure  in  conversing  with 
me,  inquiring  into  the  manners,  religion,  laws,  government,  and 
learning  of  Europe  ;  wherein  I  gave  him  the  best  account  I  was 
able.  His  apprehension  was  so  clear,  and  his  judgment  so  exact, 
that  he  made  very  wise  reflections  and  observations  upon  all  I 
said.  But  I  confess,  that,  after  I  had  been  a  little  too  copious  in 
talking  of  my  beloved  country,  —  of  our  trade,  and  wars  by  sea  and 
land;  of  our  schisms  in  religion,  and  parties  in  the  state, — the  pre- 
judices of  his  education  prevailed  so  far,  that  he  could  not  forbear 
taking  me  up  in  his  right  hand;  and,  stroking  me  gently  with 
the  other,  after  a  hearty  fit  of  laughing,  he  asked  me  whether  I 
was  a  Whig  or  a  Tory.  Then  turning  to  his  first  minister,  who 
waited  behind  him  with  a  white  staff  nearly  as  tall  as  the  main- 
mast of  "  The  Royal  Sovereign,"  he  observed  how  contemptible 
a  thing  was  human  grandeur,  which  could  be  mimicked  by  such 
diminutive  insects -as  I.  "And  yet,"  says  he,  "I  dare  engage 
these  creatures  have  their  titles,  and  distinctions  of  honor :  they 
contrive  little  nests  and  burrows  that  they  call  houses  and  cities ; 
they  make  a  figure,  and  dress  in  equipage  ;  they  love,  they  dispute, 
they  fight,  they  cheat,  they  betray."  And  thus  he  continued, 
while  my  color  came  and  went  several  times  with  indignation  to 
hear  our  noble  country  —  the  mistress  of  arts  and  arms,  the 


JONATHAN   SWIFT.  489 

scourge  of  France,  the  arbitress  of  Europe,  the  seat  of  virtue, 
piety,  honor,  and  truth,  the  pride  and  envy  of  the  world  —  so 
contemptuously  treated. 

But  as  I  was  not  in  a  condition  to  resent  injuries,  so,  upon  ma- 
ture thoughts,  I  began  to  doubt  whether  I  was  injured  or  no. 
For  after  having  been  accustomed  several  months  to  the  sight 
and  converse  of  this  people,  and  observed  every  object  upon 
whicli  I  cast  mine  eyes  to  be  of  proportionable  magnitude,  the 
horror  I  had  at  first  conceived  from  their  bulk  and  aspect 
was  so  far  worn  off,  that  if  I  had  then  beheld  a  company  of 
English  lords  and  ladies  in  their  finery  and  birthday-clothes, 
acting  their  several  parts  in  the  most  courtly  manner  of  strutting 
and  bowing  and  prating,  —  to  say  the  truth,  I  should  have 
been  strongly  tempted  to  laugh  as  much  at  them  as  the  king  and 
his  grandees  did  at  me.  Neither,  indeed,  could  I  forbear  smiling 
at  myself  when  the  queen  used  to  place  me  upon  her  hand  to- 
wards a  looking-glass,  by  which  both  our  persons  appeared  before 
me  in  full  view  together  :  and  there  could  be  nothing  more  ridicu- 
lous than  the  comparison  ;  so  that  I  realty  began  to  imagine  my- 
self dwindled  many  degrees  below  my  usual  size. 

Nothing  angered  and  mortified  me  so  much  as  the  queen's 
dwarf,  who,  being  of  the  lowest  statu-re  that  was  ever  in  that 
country  (for  I  verily  think  he  was  not  full  thirty  feet  high),  be- 
came so  insolent  at  seeing  a  creature  so  much  beneath  him,  that 
he  would  always  affect  to  swagger  and  look  big  as  he  passed  by 
me  in  the  queen's  ante-chamber,  while  I  was  standing  on  some 
table  talking  with  the  lords  or  ladies  of  the  court:  and  he  seldom 
failed  of  a  smart  word  or  two  upon  my  littleness  ;  against  which  I 
could  only  revenge  myself  by  calling  him  "  brother,"  challenging 
him  to  wrestle,  and  such  repartees  as  are  usually  in  the  mouths  of 
court  pages.  One  day  at  dinner,  this  malicious  little  cub  was  so 
nettled  at  something  I  said  to  him,  that,  raising  himself  upon  the 
frame  of  her  Majesty's  chair,  he  took  me  up  by  the  middle,  as  I 
was  sitting  down  not  thinking  any  harm,  and  let  me  drop  into  a 
large  silver  bowl  of  cream,  and  then  ran  awray  as  fast  as  he  could. 
I  fell  overhead  and  ears:  and,  if  I  had  not  been  a  good  swimmer, 
it  might  have  gone  very  hard  with  me  ;  for  Glumdalclitch  at  that 
instant  happened  to  be  at  the  other  end  of  the  room;  and  the 
queen  was  in  such  a  fright,  that  she  wanted  presence  of  mind  to 
assist  me.  But  my  little  nurse  ran  to  my  relief,  and  took  me  out 
after  I  had  swallowed  above  a  quart  of  cream.  I  was-put  to  bed  : 
however,  I  received  no  other  damage  than  the  loss  of  a  suit  of 
clothes,  which  w^re  utterly  spoiled.  The  dwarf  was  soundly 
whipped,  and,  as  a  further  punishment,  forced  to  drink  up  the 
howl  of  cream  into  which  he  had  thrown  me:  neither  was  he  ever 
restored  to  favor;  for,  soon  after,  the  queen  bestowed  him  on  a 


490  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

lady  of  high  quality,  so  that  I  saw  him  no  more,  to  my  very  great 
satisfaction ;  for  I  could  not  tell  to  what  extremity  such  a  ma- 
licious urchin  might  have  carried  his  resentment.  He  had  before 
served  me  a  scurvy  trick,  which  set  the  queen  a-laughing  ;  although 
at  the  same  time  she  was  heartily  vexed,  and  would  have  imme- 
diately cashiered  him  if  I  had  not  been  so  generous  as  to  inter- 
cede. Her  Majesty  had  taken  a  marrow-bone  upon  her  plate,  and, 
after  knocking  out  the  marrow,  placed  the  bone  again  on  the  dish 
erect,  as  it  stood  before.  The  dwarf,  watching  his  opportunity 
when  Glumdalclitch  was  gone  to  the  sideboard,  mounted  the  stool 
that  she  stood  on  to  take  care  of  me  at  meals,  took  me  up  in  both 
hands,  and,  squeezing  my  legs  together,  wedged  them  into  the  mar- 
row-bone above  my  waist,  where  I  stuck  for  some  time,  and  made 
a  very  ridiculous  tigure.  I  believe  it  was  near  a  minute  before 
any  one  knew  what  was  become  of  me;  for  I  thought  it  below  me 
to  cry  out.  But,  as  princes  seldom  get  their  meat  hot,  my  legs 
were  not  scalded ;  only  my  stockings  and  breeches  were  in  a  sad 
condition.  The  dwarf,  at  my  entreaty,  had  no  other  punishment 
than  a  sound  whipping.  . 

I  was  frequently  rallied  by  the  queen  upon  account  of  my 
fearfulness ;  and  she  used  to  ask  me  whether  the  people  of  my 
country  were  as  great  cowards  as  myself.  The  occasion  was  this: 
The  kingdom  is  much  pestered  with  flies  in  summer;  and  these 
odious  insects,  each  of  them  as  big  as  a  Dunstable  lark,  hardly 
gave  me  any  rest  while  I  sat  at  dinner,  with  their  continual  hum- 
ming and  buzzing  about  mine  ears.  They  would  sometimes 
alight  upon  my  victuals ;  and  they  would  fix  upon  my  nose  or 
forehead,  where  they  stung  me  to  the  quick,  smelling  very  offen- 
sively ;  and  I  could  easily  trace  that  viscous  matter,  which,  our 
naturalists  tell  us,  enables  those  creatures  to  walk  with  their  feet 
upwards  upon  a  ceiling.  I  had  much  ado  to  defend  myself  against 
these  detestable  animals,  and  could  not  forbear  starting  when 
they  came  on  my  face.  It  was  the  common  practice  of  the  dwarf 
to  catch  a  number  of  these  insects  in  his  hand,  as  schoolboys  do 
among  us,  and  let  them  out  suddenly  under  my  nose,  on  purpose 
to  frighten  me,  and  divert  the  queen.  My  remedy  was  to  cut 
them  in  pieces  with  my  knife  as  they  flew  in  the  air;  wherein  my 
dexterity  was  much  admired. 

I  remember,  one  morning,  when  Glumdalclitch  had  set  me  in 
a  box  upon  a  window,  as  she  usually  did  in  fair  da}7s,  to  give  me 
air  (for  L  durst  not  venture  to  let  the  box  be  hung  on  a  nail  out 
of  the  window  as  we  do  with  cages  in  England),  after  I  had 
lifted  up  one  of  my  sashes,  and  sat  down  at  my  table  to  eat  a 
piece  of  sweet  cake  for  my  breakfast,  above  twenty  wasps,  allured 
by  the  smell,  came  flying  into  the  room,  humming  louder  than 
the  drones  of  as  many  bagpipes.  Some  of  them  seized  my  cake, 


JONATHAN  SWIFT.  491 

and  carried  it  away  piecemeal :  others  flew  about  my  head  and 
face,  confounding  me  with  their  noise,  and  putting  me  in  the 
utmost  terror  of  their  stings.  However,  I  had  the  courage  to  rise 
and  draw  my  hanger,  and  attack  them  in  the  air.  I  dispatched 
four  of  them ;  but  the  rest  got  away :  and  I  presently  shut  my 
window.  These  insects  are  as  large  as  partridges.  I  took  out 
their  stings,  and  found  them  an  inch  and  a  half  long,  and  as 
sharp  as  needles.  I  carefully  preserved  them  all ;  and  having 
since  shown  them,  with  other  curiosities,  in  several  parts  of 
Europe,  upon  my  return  to  England  I  gave  three  to  Gresham 
College,  and  kept  the  fourth  for  myself. 

CHAPTER    V. 

I  SHOULD  have  lived  happy  enough  in  that  country  if  my 
littleness  had  not  exposed  me  to  several  ridiculous  and  trouble- 
some accidents ;  some  of  which  I  shall  venture  to  relate.  Glum- 
dalclitch  often  carried  me  into  the  gardens  of  the  court  in  my 
smaller  box ;  and  would  sometimes  take  me  out  of  it,  and  hold  me 
in  her  hand,  or  set  me  down  to  walk.  I  remember,  before  the 
dwarf  left  the  queen,  he  followed  us  one  day  into  those  gardens; 
and,  my  nurse  having  set  me  down  (he  and  I  being  close  together 
near  some  dwarf  apple-trees),  I  must  needs  show  my  wit  by  a 
silly  allusion  between  him  and  the  trees,  which  happens  to  hold 
in  their  language  as  it  does  in  ours.  Whereupon  the  malicious 
rogue,  watching  his  opportunity  when  I  was  walking  under  one 
of  them,  shook  it  directly  over  my  head,  by  which  a  dozen  apples, 
each  of  them  near  as  large  as  a  Bristol  barrel,  came  tumbling 
about  my  ears.  One  of  them  hit  me  on  the  back  as  I  chanced 
to  stoop,  and  knocked  me  down  flat  on  my  face ;  but  I  received 
no  other  hurt:  and  the  dwarf  was  pardoned  at  my  desire,  because 
I  had  given  the  provocation. 

Another  day,  Glumdalclitch  left  me  on  a  smooth  grassplot 
to  divert  myself  while  she  walked  at  some  distance  with  her 
governess.  In  the  mean  time,  there  suddenly  fell  such  a  violent 
shower  of  hail,  that  I  was  immediately,  by  the  force  of  it,  struck 
to  the  ground ;  and,  when  I  was  down,  the  hailstones  gave  me 
such  cruel  bangs  all  over  my  body  as  if  I  had  been  pelted  with 
tennis-balls :  however,  I  made  a  shift  to  creep  on  all-fours,  and 
shelter  myself  by  lying  flat  on  my  face  on  the  lee-side  of  a 
border  of  lemon-thyme,  but  so  bruised  from  head  to  foot,  that  I 
could  not  go  abroad  for  ten  days.  Neither  is  this  at  all  to  be 
wondered  at,  because,  Nature  in  that  country  observing  the  same 
proportion  through  all  her  operations,  a  hailstone  is  near  eighteen 
hundred  times  as  large  as  one  in  Europe ;  which  I  can  assert 
upon  experience,  having  been  so  curious  as  to  weigh  and  measure 
them. 


492  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

But  a  more  dangerous  accident  happened  to  me  in  the  same 
garden,  where  my  little  nurse,  believing  she  had  put  me  in  a  sate 
place  (which  I  often  entreated  her  to  do,  that  I  might  enjoy  my 
own  thoughts),  and  having  left  the  box  at  home  to  avoid  the 
trouble  of  carrying  it,  went  to  another  part  of  the  garden  with 
her  governess  and  some  ladies  of  her  acquaintance.  While  she 
was  absent,  and  out  of  hearing,  a  small  white  spaniel  that 
belonged  to  one  of  the  chief  gardeners,  having  got  by  accident 
into  the  garden,  happened  to  range  near  the  spot  where  I  lay. 
The  dog,  following  the  scent,  came  directly  up,  and,  taking  me  in 
his  mouth,  ran  straight  to  his  master,  wagging  his  tail,  and  set 
me  gently  on  the  ground.  By  good  fortune,  he  had  been  so  well 
tauglit,  that  I  wras  carried  between  his  teeth  without  the  least 
hurt,  or  even  tearing  my  clothes.  But  the  poor  gardener,  who 
knew  me  well,  and  had  a  great  kindness  for  me,  was  in  a  terrible 
fright:  he  gently  took  me  up  in  both  his  hands,  and  asked  me 
how  I  did ;  but  I  was  so  amazed  and  out  of  breath,  that  I  could 
not  speak  a  word.  In  a  few  minutes  I  came  to  myself ;  and  he 
carried  me  safe  to  my  little  nurse,  who  by  this  time  had  returned 
to  the  place  where  she  left  me,  and  was  in  cruel  agonies  when  I 
did  not  appear,  nor  answer  when  she  called.  She  severely  repri- 
manded the  gardener  on  account  of  his  dog.  But  the  thing  was 
hushed  up,  and  never  known  at  court,  for  the  girl  was  afraid  of 
the  queen's  anger;  and  truly,  as  to  myself,  I  thought  it  would 
not  be  for  my  reputation  that  such  a  storjr  should  go  about.  This 
accident  determined  Glumdalclitch  never  to  trust  me  abroad,  for 
the  future,  out  of  her  sight.  I  had  been  long  afraid  of  this 
resolution,  and  therefore  concealed  from  her  some  little  unlucky 
adventures  that  happened  in  those  times  when  I  was  left  by  my- 
self. Once  a  kite,  hovering  over  the  garden,  made  a  stoop  at  me ; 
and  if  I  had  not  resolutely  drawn  my  hanger,  and  run  under  a 
thick  espalier,  he  would  have  certainly  carried  me  away  in  his 
talons.  Another  time,  walking  to  the  top  of  a  fresh  mole-hill,  I 
fell  to  my  neck  in  the  hole  through  which  that  animal  had  cast 
up  the  earth ;  and  coined  a  reason,  not  worth  remembering,  to 
excuse  myself  for  spoiling  my  clothes.  I  likewise  broke  my  right 
shin  against  the  shell  of  a  snail,  which  I  happened  to  stumble 
over  as  I  was  walking  along  and  thinking  on  poor  England.  I 
can  not  tell  whether  I  was  more  pleased  or  mortified  to  observe 
in  these  solitary  walks  that  the  smaller  birds  did  not  appear  to 
be  at  all  afraid  of  me,  but  would  hop  about  within  a  yard's  dis- 
tance, looking  for  worms  and  other  food,  with  as  much  indifference 
and  security  as  if  no  creature  at  all  were  near  them.  I  remem- 
ber a  thrush  had  the  confidence  to  snatch  out  of  my  hand,  witl? 
his  bill,  a  piece  of  ,cal>e  that  Glumdalclitch  had  just  given  me  for 
breakfast.  When  I  attempted  to  catch  any  of  these  birds,  they 


JONATHAN   SWIFT.  493 

would  boldly  turn  against  me,  endeavoring  to  peck  my  fingers, 
which  I  durst  not  venture  within  their  reach ;  and*  then  they 
would  hop  back,  unconcerned,  to  hunt  for  worms  or  snails  as  they 
did  before.  But  one  day  I  took  a  thick  cudgel,  and  threw  it  with 
all  my  strength,  so  luckily,  at  a  linnet,  that  I  knocked  him  down, 
and,  seizing  him  by  the  neck  with  both  my  hands,  ran  with  him 
in  triumph  to  my  nurse.  However,  the  bird,  who  had  been  only 
stunned,  recovering  himself,  gave  me  so  many  boxes  with  his 
wings  on  both  sides  of  my  head  and  body,  though  I  held  him  at 
arm's-length  and  was  out  of  the  reach  of  his  claws,  that  I  was 
twenty  times  thinking  to  let  him  go.  But  I  was  soon  relieved 
by  one  of  our  servants,  who  wrung  off  the  bird's  neck  ;  and  I  had 
him  next  day  for  dinner,  by  the  queen's  command.  This  linnet, 
as  near  as  I  can  remember,  seemed  to  be  somewhat  larger  than 
an  English  swan. 

The  maids  of  honor  often  invited  Glumdalclitch  to  their  apart- 
ments, and  desired  she  would  bring  me  along  with  her  on  pur- 
pose to  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  and  touching  me.  To  me 
their  endearments  were  very  disgusting,  which  I  do  not  mention 
or  intend  to  the  disadvantage  of  those  excellent  ladies,  for  whom 
I  h;ive  all  manner  of  respect ;  but  I  conceive  that  my  sense  was 
more  acute  in  proportion  to  my  littleness,  and  that  those  illus- 
trious persons  were  no  more  disagreeable  to  their  lovers,  or  to  each 
other,  than  people  of  the  same  quality  are  with  us  in  England. 
And,  after  all,  I  found  the  natural  odor  of  their  skin  was  much 
more  supportable  than  when  they  used  perfumes,  under  which  I 
immediately  swooned  away.  I  can  not  forget  that  an  intimate 
friend  of  mine  in  Liliput  took  the  freedom,  in  a  warm  day,  when 
I  had  used  a  good  deal  of  exercise,  to  complain  of  a  strong  smell 
about  me,  although  I  am  as  little  faulty  that  way  as  most  of  my 
sex;  but  I  suppose  his  faculty  of  smelling  was  as  nice  with 
regard  to  me  as  mine  was  to  that  of  this  people.  Upon  this 
point  I  can  not  forbear  doing  justice  to  the  queen  my  mistress, 
and  Glumdalclitch  my  nurse,  whose  persons  were  as  sweet  as 
those  of  any  lady  in  England. 

One  day,  a  young  gentleman,  who  .was  nephew  to  my  nurse's 
governess,  came  and  pressed  them  both  to  see  an  execution.  It 
was  of  a  man  who  had  murdered  one  of  that  gentleman's  inti- 
mate acquaintance.  Glumdalclitch  was  prevailed  on  to  be  of  the 
company,  very  much  against  her  inclination,  for  she  was  natu- 
rally tender-hearted ;  and  as  for  myself,  although  I  abh'orred  such 
kind  of  spectacles,  yet  my  curiosity  tempted  me  to  see  something 
that  I  thought  must  be  extraordinary.  The  malefactor  was 
fixed  in  a  chair  upon  a  scaffold  erected  for  that  purpose,  and  his 
head  cut  off  at  one  blow  with  a  sword  of  forty  feet  long.  The 
veins  and  arteries  spouted  up  such  a  prodigious  quantity  of 


494  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

blood,  and  so  high  in  the  air,  that  the  great  jet  d'eau  at  Ver- 
sailles was  not  equal  for  the  time  it  lasted;  and  the  head,  when 
it  fell  upon  the  scaffold-floor,  gave 'such  a  bounce  as  made  me 
start,  although  I  was  at  least  half  an  English  mile  distant. 

The  queen,  who  often  used  to  hear  me  talk  of  sea- voyages,  and 
took  all  occasions  to  divert  me  when  I  was  melancholy,  asked  me 
whether  I  understood  how  to  handle  a  sail  or  an  oar,  and  whether 
a  little  exercise  of  rowing  might  not  be  convenient  for  my  health. 
I  answered  that  I  understood  both  very  well ;  for  although  my 
proper  employment  had  been  to  be  surgeon  or  doctor  to  the  ship, 
yet  often,  upon  a  pinch,  I  was  forced  to  work  like  a  common  mari- 
ner. But  I  could  not  see  how  this  could  be  done  in  their  coun- 
try, where  the  smallest  wherry  was  equal  to  a  first-rate  man-of-war 
among  us;  and  such  a  boat  as  I  could  manage  would  never  live 
in  any  of  their  rivers.  Her  Majesty  said,  if  I  could  contrive  a 
boat,  her  own  joiner  should  make  it ;  and  she  would  provide  a 
place  for  me  to  sail  in.  The  fellow  was  an  ingenious  workman, 
and,  by  my  instructions,  in  ten  days  finished  a  pleasure-boat,  with 
all  its  tackling,  able  conveniently  to  hold  eight  Europeans.  When 
it  was  finished,  the  queen  was  so  delighted,  that  she  ran  with  it 
in  her  lap  to  the  king,  who  ordered  it  to  be  put  in  a  cistern  full 
of  water,  with  me  in  it,  by  the  way  of  trial,  where  I  could  not 
manage  my  two  sculls,  or  little  oars,  for  want  of  room.  But  the 
queen  had  before  contrived  another  project.  She  ordered  the 
joiner  to  make  a  wooden  trough  of  three  hundred  feet  long,  fifty 
broad,  and  eight  deep ;  which  being  well  pitched,  to  prevent  leak- 
ing, was  placed  on  the  floor  along  the  wall  in  an  outer  room  of 
the  palace.  It  had  a  tap  near  the  bottom  to  let  out  the  water 
when  it  began  to  grow  stale ;  and  two  servants  could  easily  fill  it 
in  half  an  hour.  Here  I  often  used  to  row  for  my  own  diversion, 
as  well  as  that  of  the  queen  and  her  ladies,  who  thought  them- 
selves well  entertained  by  my  skill  and  agility.  Sometimes  I 
would  put  up  my  sail ;  and  then  my  business  was  only  to  steer, 
while  the  ladies  gave  me  a  gale  with  their  fans ;  and,  when  they 
were  weary,  some  of  their  pages  would  blow  my  sail  forward  with 
their  breath,  while  I  showed  my  art  by  steering  starboard  or  lar- 
board as  I  pleased.  When  I  had  done,  Glumdalclitch  always 
carried  back  my  boat  into  her  closet,  and  hung  it  on  a  nail  to 
dry. 

In  this  exercise  I  once  met  with  an  accident  which  had  like  to 
have  cost  me  my  life:  for,  one  of  the  pages  having  put  my  boat  into 
the  trough,  the  governess  who  attended  Glumdalclitch  ver}T  offi- 
ciously lifted  me  up  to  place  me  in  the  boat;  but  I  happened  to  slip 
tli rough  her  fingers,  and  should  infallibly  have  fallen  down  forty 
feet  upon  the  floor,  if,  by  the  luckiest  chance  in  the  world,  I  had 
not  been  stopped  by  a  corking-pin  that  stuck  in  the  good  gentle- 


JONATHAN  SWIFT.  495 

woman's  stomacher.  The  head  of  the  pin  passed  between  my  shirt 
and  the  waistband  of  my  breeches ;  and  thus  I  was  held  by  the 
middle  in  the  air  till  Glmndalclitch  ran  to  my  relief. 

Another  time,  one  of  the  servants,  whose  office  it  was  to  fill  my 
trough  every  third  day  with  fresh  water,  was  so  careless  as  to  let 
a  huge  frog  (not  perceiving  it)  slip  out  of  his  pail.  The  frog  lay 
concealed  till  I  was  put  into  my  boat,  but  then,  seeing  a  resting- 
place,  climbed  up,  and  made  it  lean  so  much  on  one  side,  that  I 
was  forced  to  balance  it  with  all  my  weight  on  the  other  to  pre- 
vent overturning.  When  the  frog  was  got  in,  it  hopped  at  once 
half  the  length  of  my  boat,  and  then  over  my  head,  backward  and 
forward,  daubing  my  face  and  my  clothes  with  its  odious  slime. 
The  largeness  of  its  features  made  it  appear  the  most  deformed 
animal  that  can  be  conceived.  However,  I  desired  Glumdalclitch 
to  let  me  deal  with  it  alone.  I  banged  it  a  good  while  with  one 
of  my  sculls,  and  at  last  forced  it  to  leap  out  of  the  boat. 

But  the  greatest  danger  I  ever  underwent  in  that  kingdom  was 
from  a  monkey,  who  belonged  to  one  of  the  clerks  of  the  kitchen. 
Ulumdalclitch  had  locked  me  np  in  her  closet  while  she  went 
somewhere  upon  business  or  a  visit.  The  weather  being  very 
warm,  the  closet-window  was  left  open,  as  well  as  the  windows 
and  the  door  of  my  bigger  box,  in  which  I  usually  lived  because 
of  its  largeness  and  conveniency.  As  I  sat  quietly  meditating  at 
my  table,  I  heard  something  bound  in  at  the  closet-window,  and 
skip  about  from  one  side  to  the  other:  whereat,  although  I  was 
much  alarmed,  yet  I  ventured  to  look  out,  but  not  stirring  from 
my  seat;  and  then  I  saw  this  frolicsome  animal  frisking  and  leap- 
ing up  and  down,  till  at  last  he  came  to  my  box,  which  he  seemed 
to  view  with  great  pleasure  and  curiosity,  peeping  in  at  the  door 
and  every  window.  I  retreated  to  the  farther  corner  of  my  room,  or 
box;  but  the  monkey,  looking  in  at  every  side,  put  me  into  such 
a  fright,  that  I  wanted  presence  of  mind  to  conceal  myself  under 
the  bed,  as  I  might  easily  have  done.  After  some  time  spent  in 
peeping,  grinning,  and  chattering,  he  at  last  espied  me  ;  and 
reaching  one  of  his  paws  in  at  the  door  as  a  cat  does  when  she 
plays  with  a  mouse,  although  I  often  shifted  place  to  avoid  him, 
he  at  length  seized  the  lappet  of  my  coat  (which,  being  made  of 
that  coimtr}T  silk,  was  very  thick  and  strong),  and  dragged  me 
out.  He  took  me  up  in  his  right  fore-foot,  and  held  me  as  a  nurse 
does  a  child  she  is  going  to  suckle, — just  as  I  have  seen  the  same 
sort  of  creature  do  with  a  kitten  in  Europe ;  and,  when  I  offered 
to  struggle,  he  squeezed  me  so  hard,  that  I  thought  it  more  pru- 
dent to  submit.  I.  have  good  reason  to  believe  that  he  took  me 
for  a  young  one  of  his  own  species,  by  his  often  stroking  my' face 
very  gently  with  his  other  paw.  In  these  diversions  lie  was 
interrupted  by  a  noise  at  the  closet-door,  as  if  somebody  was  open- 


496  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

ing  it :  whereupon  he  suddenly  leaped  up  to  the  window  at  which 
he  had  come  in,  and  thence  upon  the  leads  and  gutters,  walking 
upon  three  legs,  and  holding  me  iri  the  fourth,  till  he  clambered 
up  a  roof  next  to  ours.  I  heard  Gluindulclitch  give  a  shriek  at 
the  moment  he  was  carrying  me  out.  The  poor  girl  was  almost 
distracted.  That  quarter  of  the  palace  was  all  in  an  uproar.  The 
servants  ran  for  the  ladders.  The  monkey  was  seen  by  hundreds 
in  the  court,  sitting  upon  the  ridge  of  a  building,  holding  me  like 
a  baby  in  one  of  his  fore-paws,  and  feeding  me  with  the  other  by 
cramming  into  my  mouth  some  victuals  he  had  squeezed  out  of  the 
bag  on  one  side  of  his  chaps,  and  patting  me  when  I  would  not  eat ; 
whereat  many  of  the  rabble  below  could  not  forbear  laughing : 
neither  do  I  think  they  justly  ought  to  be  blamed;  for,  without 
question,  the  sight  was  ridiculous  enough  to  everybody  but  my- 
self. Some  of  the  people  threw  up  stones,  hoping  to  drive  the 
monkey  down  ;  but  this  was  strictly  forbidden,  or  ehc,  very  proba- 
bly, my  brains  had  been  dashed  out. 

The  ladders  were  now  applied,  and  mounted  by  several  men, 
which  the  monkey  observing,  and  finding  himself  almost  encom- 

Eassed,  not  being  able  to  make  speed  enough  with  his  three  legs, 
?t  me  drop  on  a  ridge-tile,  and  made  his  escape.  Here  I  sat  for 
some  time,  five  hundred  yards  from  the  ground,  expecting  every 
moment  to  be  blown  down  by  the  wind,  or  to  fall  by  my  own  gid- 
diness, and  come  tumbling  over  and  over  from  the  ridge  to  the 
eaves  ;  but  an  honest  Lid,  one  of  my  nurse's  footmen,  climbed  up, 
and,  putting  me  into  his  breeches'  pocket,  brought  me  down  safe. 
I  was  almost  choked  with  the  filthy  stuff  the  monkey  crammed 
down  my  throat ;  but  my  dear  little  nurse  picked  it  out  of  my 
mouth  with  a  small  needle;  and  then  I  fell  a-vomiting,  which  gave 
me  great  relief.  Yet  I  was  so  weak  and  bruised  in  the  sides  with 
the  squeezes  given  me  by  this  odious  animal,  that  I  was  forced  to 
keep  my  bed  a  fortnight.  The  king,  queen,  and  all  the  court, 
sent  every  day  to  inquire  after  my  health ;  and  her  Majesty  made 
me  several  visits  during  my  sickness.  The  monkey  was  killed, 
and  an  order  made  that  no  such  animal  should  be  kept  about  the 
palace. 

When  I  attended  the  king,  after  my  recovery,  to  return  him 
thanks  for  his  favors,  he  was  pleased  to  rally  me  a  good  deal  upon 
this  adventure.  He  asked  me  what  my  thoughts  and  speculations 
were  while  I  lay  in  the  monkey's  paw  ;  how  I  liked  the  victuals 
he  gave  ma;  his  manner  of  feeding;  and  whether  the  fresh  air 
on  the  roof  had  sharpened  my  stomach.  He  desired  to  know 
what  I  would  have  done  upon  such  an  occasion  in  my  own  coun- 
try. I  told  his  Majesty  that  in  Europe  we  had  no  monkeys,  ex- 
cept such  as  were  brought  as  curiosities  from  other  places,  and  so 
small,  that  I  could  deal  with  a  dozen  of  them  together  if  they  pro- 


JONATHAN   SWIFT.  497 

sumed  to  attack  me.  And  as  for  that  monstrous  animal  with 
whom  I  was  so  lately  engaged  (it  was,  indeed,  as  large  as  an  ele- 
phant), if  my  fears  had  suffered  me  to  think  so  far  as  to  make  use 
of  my  hanger  (looking  fiercely,  and  clapping  my  hand  upon  the 
hilt  as  I  spoke)  when  he  poked  his  paw  into  my  chamber,  per- 
haps I  should  have  given  him  such  a  wound  as  would  have  made 
him  glad  to  withdraw  it  with  more  haste  than  he  put  it  iii.  This 
I  delivered  in  a  firm  tone,  like  a  person  who  was  jealous  lest  his 
courage  should  be  called  in  question.  However,  my  speech  pro- 
duced nothing  else  besides  a  loud  laughter,  which  all  the  respect 
due  to  his  Majesty  from  those  about  him  could  not  make  them 
contain.  This  made  me  reflect  how  vain  an  attempt  it  is  for  a 
man  to  endeavor  to  do  himself  honor  among  those  who  are  out  of 
all  degrees  of  equality  or  comparison  with  him.  And  yet  I  have 
seen  the  moral  of  my  own  behavior  very  frequent  in  England 
since  my  return,  where  a  little  contemptible  varlet,  without  the 
least  title  to  birth,  person,  wit,  or  common  sense,  shall  presume  to 
look  with  importance,  and  put  himself  upon  a  footing  with  the 
greatest  person  of  the  kingdom. 

I  was  every  day  furnishing  the  court  with  some  ridiculous  story ; 
and  Glumdalclitch,  although  she  loved  me  to  excess,  yet  was  arch 
enough  to  inform  the  queen  whenever  I  committed  any  folly  that 
she  thought  would  be  diverting  to  her  Majesty.  The  girl,  who 
had  been  out  of  order,  was  carried  by  her  governess  to  take  the 
air  about  an  hour's  distance,  or  thirty  miles  from  town.  They 
alighted  out  of  the  coach  near  a  small  footpath  in  a  field;  and, 
Glumdalclitch  setting  down  my  traveling-box,  I  went  out  of  it  to 
walk.  There  was  a  small  heap  of  dirt  in  the  path,  and  I  must  needs 
try  my  activity  by  attempting  to  leap  over  it.  I  took  a  run,  but, 
unfortunately,  jumped  short,  and  found  myself  just  in  the  middle, 
up  to  my  knees.  I  waded  through  with  some  difficulty;  and  one 
of  the  footmen  wiped  me  as  clean  as  he  could  with  his  handker- 
chief, for  I  was  filthily  bemired ;  and  my  nurse  confined  me  to  my 
box  till  we  returned  home,  when  the  queen  was  soon  informed  of 
what  had  passed,  and  the  footmen  spread  it  about  the  court ;  so 
that  all  the  mirth  for  some  days  was  at  my  expense. 
32 


498  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

DANIEL   DEFOE. 

1661-1731. 

Voluminous  writer  of  fiction  and  political  pamphlets.  In  simple  and  natuial 
style,  he  paints  fiction  as  reality  with  unsurpassed  success. 

ROBINSON   CRUSOE. 

I  WAS  born  in  the  year  1632,  in  the  city  of  York,  of  a  good 
family,  though  not  of  that  country  ;  my  father  being  a  foreigner 
of  Bremen,  who  settled  first  at  Hull.  He  got  a  good  estate  by 
merchandise,  and,  leaving  off  his  trade,  lived  afterwards  at  York ; 
from  whence  he  had  married  my  mother,  whose  relations  were 
named  Robinson,  —  a  very  good  family  in  that  country,  and  from 
whom  I  was  called  Kreutznaer:  but,  by  the  usual  corruption  of 
words  in  England,  we  are  now  called,  nay,  we  call  ourselves,  and 
write  our  name,  Crusoe ;  and  so  my  companions  always  called  me. 
I  had  two  elder  brothers,  one  of  which  was  lieutenant-colonel  to  an 
English  regiment  of  foot  in  Flanders,  formerly  commanded  by  the 
famous  Col.  Lockhart,  and  was  killed  at  the  battle  near  Dun- 
kirk against  the  Spaniards.  What  became  of  my  second  brother  I 
never  knew  any  more  than  my  father  or  mother  did  know  what  was 
become  of  me.  Being  the  third  son  of  the  family,  and  not  bred 
to  any  trade,  my  head  began  to  be  filled  very  earl}'  with  rambling 
thoughts.  My  father,  who  was  very  ancient,  had  given  me  a  com- 
petent share  of  learning,  as  far  as  house-education  and  a  country 
free  school  generally  go,  and  designed  me  for  the  law :  but  I 
would  be  satisfied  with  nothing  but  going  to  sea;  and  my  inclina- 
tion to  this  led  me  so  strongly  against  the  will,  nay,  the  commands, 
of  my  father,  and  against  all  the  entreaties  and  persuasions  of  my 
mother  and  other  friends,  that  there  seemed  to  be  something  fatal 
in  that  propension  of  nature,  tending  directly  to  the  life  of  misery 
which  was  to  befall  me.  My  father,  a  wise  and  grave  man,  gave 
me  serious  and  excellent  counsel  against  what  he  foresaw  was  my 
design.  He  called  me  one  morning  into  his  chamber,  where  he 
was  confined  by  the  gout,  and  expostulated  with  me  very  warmly 
upon  this  subject :  he  asked  me  what  reasons,  more  than  a  mere 
wandering  inclination,  I  had  for  leaving  my  father's  house,  and 
my  native  country,  where  I  might  be  well  introduced,  and  had  a 
prospect  of  raising  my  fortune  by  application  and  industry,  with 
a  life  of  ease  and  pleasure.  He  told  me  it  was  men  of  desperate 
fortunes  on  one  hand,  or  of  aspiring,  superior  fortunes  on  the  other, 
and  who  went  abroad  upon  adventures,  to  rise  by  enterprise,  and 


DANIEL  DEFOE.  499 

make  themselves  famous  in  undertakings  of  a  nature  out  of  the 
common  road;  that  these  things  were  all  either  too  far  above  me  or 
too  far  below  me  ;  that  mine  was  the  middle  state,  or  what  might  be 
called  the  upper  station  of  low  life,  which  he  had  found  by  long 
experience  was  the  best  state  in  the  world,  —  the  most  suited  to 
human  happiness,  not  exposed  to  the  miseries  and  hardships,  the 
labor  and  sufferings,  of  the  mechanic  part  of  mankind,  and  not 
embarrassed  with  the  pride,  luxury,  ambition,  and  envy  of  the 
upper  part  of  mankind.  He  told  me  I  might  judge  of  the  happi- 
ness of  this  state  by  this  one  thing,  —  viz.,  that  this  was  the  state 
of  life  which  all  other  people  envied;  that  kings  have  frequently 
lamented  the  miserable  consequence  of  being  born  to  great  things, 
and  wished  they  had  been  placed  in  the  middle  of  the  two  ex- 
tremes, —  between  the  mean  and  the  great ;  that  the  wise  man  gave 
his  testimony  to  this  as  the  standard  of  felicity  when  he  prayed 
to  have  neither  poverty  nor  riches.  He  bade  me  observe  it,  and  I 
should  always  find,  that  the  calamities  of  life  were  shared  among 
the  upper  and  lower  part  of  mankind ;  but  that  the  middle  station 
had  the  fewest  disasters,  and  was  not  exposed  to  so  many  vicissi- 
tudes as  the  higher  or  lower  part  of  mankind  ;  nay,  they  were  not 
subjected  to  so  many  distemp_ers  and  uneasiness,  either  of  body  or 
mind,  as  those  were,  who  by  vicious  living,  luxury,  and  extrava- 
gances, on  the  one  hand,  or  by  hard  labor,  want  of  necessaries,  and 
mean  or  insufficient  diet,  on  the  other  hand,  bring  distempers  upon 
themselves  by  the  natural  consequences  of  their  way  of  living ; 
that  the  middle  station  of  life  was  calculated  for  all  kind  of  virtues 
and  all  kind  of  enjoyments ;  that  peace  and  plenty  were  the 
handmaids  of  a  middle  fortune;  that  temperance,  moderation, 
quietness,  health,  society,  all  agreeable  diversions,  and  all  desirable 
pleasures,  were  the  blessings  attending  the  middle  station  of  life ; 
that,  this  way,  men  went  silently  and  smoothly  through  the  world, 
and  comfortably  out  of  it,  not  embarrassed  with  the  labors  of  the 
hands  or  of  the  head ;  not  sold  to  a  life  of  slavery  for  daily  bread, 
or  harassed  with  perplexed  circumstances  which  rob  the  soul  of 
peace,  and  the  body  of  rest ;  nor  enraged  with  the  passion  of 
envy,  or  the  secret  burning  lust  of  ambition  for  great  things  ;  but 
in  easy  circumstances,  sliding  gently  through  the  world,  and 
sensibly  tasting  the  sweets  of  living  without  the  bitter ;  feeling 
that  they  are  happy,  and  learning  by  every  day's  experience  to 
know  it  more  sensibly. 

After  this  he  pressed  me  earnestly,  and  in  the  most  affectionate 
manner,  not  to  play  the  young  man,  nor  to  precipitate  myself 
into  miseries  which  Nature,  and  the  station  of  life  I  was  born  in, 
seemed  to  have  provided  against ;  that  I  was  under  no  necessity 
of  seeking  my  bread ;  that  he  would  do  well  for  me,  and  en- 
deavor to  enter  me  fairly  into  the  station  of  life  which  he  had 


500  ENGLISH:  LITERATURE. 

just  been  recommending  to  me  ;  and  th.it,  if  I  was  not  very  easy 
and  happy  in  the  world,  it  must  be  my  mere  fate  or  fault  that 
must  hinder  it;  and  that  he  should  have  nothing  to  answer  for, 
having  thus  discharged  his  duty  in  warning  me  against  measures 
which  he  knew  would  be  to  my  hurt :  in  a  word,  that  as  he  would 
do  very  kind  things  for  me  if  I  would  stay  and  settle  at  home  as 
he  directed,  so  he  would  not  have  so  much  hand  in  my  misfortunes 
as  to  give  me  any  encouragement  to  go  away.  And,  to  close  all, 
he  told  me  I  had  my  elder  brother  for  an  example,  to  whom  he 
had  used  the  same  earnest  persuasions  to  keep  him  from  going 
into  the  Low-Country  wars,  but  could  not  prevail,  his  young 
desires  prompting  him  to  run  into  the  army,  where  he  was  killed. 
And  though  he  said  he  would  not  cease  to  pray  for  me,  yet  he 
would  venture  to  say  to  me,  that,  if  I  did  take  this  foolish  step, 
God  would  not  bless  me,  and  I  would  have  leisure  hereafter  to 
reflect  upon  having  neglected  his  counsel  where  there  might  be 
none  to  assist  in  my  recovery. 

I  observed  in  this  last  part  of  his  discourse,  which  was  truly 
prophetic,  though  I  suppose  my  father  did  not  know  it  to  be  so 
himself,  —  I  say,  I  observed  the  tears  run  down  his  face  very  plen- 
tifully, especially  when  he  spoke  of  my  brother  who  was  killed ; 
and  that  when  he  spoke  of  my  having  leisure  to  repent,  and  none 
to  assist  me,  he  was  so  moved,  that  he  broke  off  the  discourse,  and 
told  me  his  heart  was  so  full  he  could  say  no  more  to  me. 

I  was  sincerely  affected  with  this  discourse,  —  as,  indeed,  who 
could  be  otherwise  ?  —  and  I  resolved  not  to  think  of  going  abroad 
any  more,  but  to  settle  at  home  according  to  my  father's  desire. 
Uut,  alas !  a  few  days  wore  it  all  off;  and  in  short,  to  prevent 
any  of  my  father's  further  importunities,  in  a  few  weeks  after  I 
resolved  to  run  quite  away  from  him.  However,  I  did  not  act 
quite  so  hastily  neither  as  the  first  heat  of  my  resolution  prompt- 
ed :  but  I  took  my  mother  at  a  time  when  I  thought  her  a  little 
pleasanter  than  ordinary,  and  told  her  that  my  thoughts  were  so 
entirely  bent  upon  seeing  the  world,  that  I  should  never  settle  to 
any  thing  with  resolution  enough  to  go  through  with  it,  and  my 
father  had  better  give  me  his  consent  than  force  me  to  go  without 
it ;  that  I  was  now  eighteen  years  old,  which  was  too  late  to  go 
apprentice  to  a  trade,  or  clerk  to  an  attorney- ;  that  I  was  sure,  if 
I  did,  I  should  never  serve  out  my  time,  but  I  should  certainly  run 
away  from  my  master  before  my  time  was  out,  and  go  to  sea ;  and, 
if  she  would  speak  to  my  father  to  let  me  go  one  voyage  abroad, 
if  I  came  home  again,  and  did  not  like  it,  I  would  go  no  more ; 
and  I  would  promise,  by  a  double  diligence,  to  recover  the  time  that 
I  had  lost.  This  put  my  mother  into  a  great  passion.  She  told 
me  she  knew  it  would  be  to  no  purpose  to  speak  to  my  father  upon 
any  such  subject  j  that  he  knew  too  well  what  was  my  interest  to 


DANIEL  DEFOE.  501 

give  liis  consent  to  any  thing  so  much  for  my  hurt ;  and  that  she 
wondered  how  I  could  think  of  any  such  thing  after  the  discourse 
I  had  had  with  my  father,  and  such  kind  and  tender  expressions 
as  she  knew  my  father  had  used  to  me ;  and  that,  in  short,  if  I 
would  ruin  myself,  there  was  no  help  for  me;  that  I  might  de- 
pend I  should  never  have  their  consent  to  it ;  that,  for  her  part, 
she  would  not  have  so  much  hand  in  my  destruction,  and  I 
should  never  have  it  to  say  that  my  mother  was  willing  when  my 
father  was  not.  Though  my  mother  refused  to  move  it  to  my 
father,  yet  I  heard  afterwards  that  she  reported  all  the  discourse 
to  him,  and  that  my  father,  after  showing  a  great  concern  at  it, 
said  to  her  with  a  sigh,  "That  boy  might  be  happy  if  he  would 
stay  at  home  ;  but,  if  he  goes  abroad,  he  wrill  be  the  most  miserable 
wretch  that  ever  was  born.  I  can  give  no  consent  to  it." 

It  was  not  till  almost  a  year  after  this  that  I  broke  loose; 
though,  in  the  mean  time,  I  continued  obstinately  deaf  to  all 
proposals  of  settling  to  business,  and  frequently  expostulating 
with  my  father  and  mother  about  their  being  so  positively  deter- 
mined against  what  they  knew  my  inclinations  prompted  me  to. 

But  being  one  day  at  Hull,  whither  I  went  casually,  and  with- 
out any  purpose  of  making  an  elopement  at  that  time,  — but,  I  say, 
being  there,  and  one  of  my  companions  being  going  by  sea  to 
London  in  his  father's  ship,  and  prompting  me  to  go  with  them, 
with  the  common  allurement  of  a  seafaring  man  that  it  should 
cost  me  nothing  for  my  passage,  I  consulted  neither  father  nor 
mother  any  more, — not  so  much  as  sent  them  word  of  it;  but 
leaving  them  to  hear  of  it  as  they  might,  without  asking  God's 
blessing  or  my  father's,  without  any  consideration  of  circum- 
stances or  consequences,  and  in  an  ill  hour,  God  knows,  on  the 
1st  of  September,  1651, 1  went  on  board  a  ship  bound  for  London. 
Never  any  young  adventurer's  misfortunes,  I  believe,  began  sooner 
or  continued  longer  than  mine.  The  ship  was  no  sooner  got  out 
of  the  Humber  but  the  wind  began  to  blow  and  the  sea  to  rise  in 
a  most  frightful  manner;  andyas  I  had  never  been  at  sea  before, 
I  was  most  inexpressibly  sick  in  bod}T,  arid  terrified  in  mind.  I 
began  now  seriously  to  reflect  upon  what  I  had  done,  and  how 
justly  I  was  overtaken  by  the  judgment  of  Heaven  for  my  wicked 
leaving  my  father's  house,  and  abandoning  my  duty.  All  the 
good  counsels  of  my  parents,  my  father's  tears,  and  my  mother's 
entreaties,  came  now  fresh  in  my  mind  ;  and  my  conscience,  which 
was  not  yet  come  to  the  pitch  of  hardness  to  which  it  has  been 
since,  reproached  me  with  the  contempt  of  advice,  and  the  breach 
of  my  duty  to  my  God  and  my  father. 


502  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


ROBINSON   CRUSOE  DISCOVERS   THE  FOOTPRINT. 

IT  happened  one  clay  about  noon,  going  towards  my  boat,  I  was 
exceedingly  surprised  with  the  print  of  a  man's  naked  foot  on  the 
shore,  which  was  very  plain  to  be  seen  in  the  sand.  I  stood  like 
one  thunder-struck,  or  as  if  I  had  seen  an  apparition.  I  listened  ; 
I  looked  round  me  :  I  could  hear  nothing,  nor  see  any  thing.  I 
went  up  to  a  rising  ground  to  look  farther;  I  went  up  the  shore, 
and  down  the  shore :  but  it  was  all  one ;  I  could  see  no  other  im- 
pression but  that  one.  I  went  to  it  again  to  see  if  there  were  any 
more,  and  to  observe  if  it  might  not  be  my  fancy :  but  there  was 
no  room  for  that ;  for  there  was  exactly  the  very  print  of  a  foot,  — 
toes,  heel,  and  every  part  of  a  foot.  How  it  came  thither  I  knew 
not,  nor  could  in  the  least  imagine.  But  after  innumerable  flut- 
tering thoughts,  like  a  man  perfectly  confused,  and  out  of  myself, 
I  came  home  to  my  fortification,  not  feeling,  as  we  say,  the  ground 
I  went  on,  but  terrified  to  the  last  degree  ;  looking  behind  me  at 
every  two  or  three  steps,  mistaking  every  bush  and  tree,  and 
fancying  every  stump  at  a  distance  to  be  a  man.  Nor  is  it  possible 
to  describe  how  many  various  shapes  an  affrighted  imagination, 
represented  things  to  me  in  ;  how  many  wild  ideas  were  formed 
every  moment  in  my  fancy ;  and  what  strange,  unaccountable 
whimseys  came  into  my  thoughts  by  the  wa}7. 

When  I  came  to  my  castle  (for  so  I  think  I  called  it  ever  after 
this),  I  fled  into  it  like  one  pursued.  Whether  I  went  over  by  the 
ladder  at  first  contrived,  or  went  in  at  the  hole  in  the  rock  which 
I  called  a  door,  I  can  not  remember;  for  never  frighted  hare  fled 
to  cover,  or  fox  to  earth,  with  more  terror  of  mind  than  I  to  this 
retreat. 

I  slept  none  that  night.  The  farther  I  was  from  the  occasion 
of  my  fright,  the  greater  my  apprehensions  were  ;  which  is  some- 
thing contrary  to  the  nature  of  such  things,  and  especially  to  the 
usual  practice  of  all  creatures  in  fear :  but  I  was  so  embarrassed 
with  my  own  frightful  ideas  of  the  thing,  that  I  formed  nothing 
but  dismal  imaginations  to  myself,  even  though  I  was  now  a  great 
way  off  it.  Sometimes  I  fancied  it  must  be  the  Devil :  and  reason 
joined  in  with  me  upon  this  supposition  ;  for  how  should  any 
other  thing  in  human  shape  come  into  the  place?  Where  was 
the  vessel  that  brought  them  ?  What  marks  were  there  of  any 
other  footsteps  ?  and  how  was  it  possible  a  man  should  come 
there  ?  But  then,  to  think  that  Satan  should  take  human  shape 
upon  him  in  such  a  place,  where  there  could  be  no  manner  of 
occasion  for  it  but  to  leave  the  print  of  his  foot  behind  him,  and 
that  even  for  no  purpose  too,  —  for  he  could  not  be  sure  I  should 
sec  it,  —  this  was  an  amusement  the  other  way.  I  considered  that 


DANIEL  DEFOE.  503 

the  Devil  might  have  found  out  abundance  of  other  ways  to  have 
terrified  me  than  this  of  the  single  print  of  a  foot  j  that,  as  I  lived 
quite  on  the  other  side  of  the  island,  he  would  never  have  been  so 
simple  as  to  leave  a  mark  in  a  place  where  it  was  ten  thousand  to 
one  whether  I  should  ever  see  it  or  not,  and  in  the  sand  too,  which 
the  first  surge  of  the  sea,  upon  a  high  wind,  would  have  defaced 
entirety :  all  this  seemed  inconsistent  with  the  thing  itself,  and 
with  all  the  notions  we  usually  entertain  of  the  subtlety  of  the 
Devil.  Abundance  of  such  things  as  these  assisted  to  argue  me 
out  of  all  apprehensions  of  its  being  the  Devil:  and  I  presently 
concluded,  then,  that  it  must  be  some  more  dangerous  creature  ; 
viz.,  that  it  must  be  some  of  the  savages  of  the  mainland  over 
against  me,  who  had  wandered  out  to  sea  in  their  canoes,  and, 
either  driven  by  the  currents  or  contrary  winds,  had  made  the 
island,  and  had  been  on  shore,  but  Avere  gone  away  again  to  sea, 
being  as  loath,  perhaps,  to  have  staid  in  this  desolate  island  as  I 
would  have  been  to  have  them. 

While  these  reflections  were  rolling  upon  my  mind,  I  was  very 
thankful  in  my  thoughts  that  I  was  so  happy  as  not  to  be  there- 
abouts at  that  time,  or  that  they  did  not  see  my  boat,  by  which 
they  would  have  concluded  that  some  inhabitants  had  been  in  the 
place,  and  perhaps  have  searched  farther  for  me.  Then  terrible 
thoughts  racked  my  imagination  about  their  having  found  my 
boat,  and  that  there  were  people  here ;  and  that,  if  so,  I  should 
certainly  have  them  come  again  in  greater  numbers,  and  devour 
me ;  that  if  it  should  happen  so  that  they  should  not  find  me, 
yet  they  would  find  my  inclosure,  destroy  all  my  corn,  and  carry 
away  all  my  flock  of  tame  goats,  and  I  should  perish  at  last  for 
mere  want. 

Thus  my  fear  banished  all  my  religious  hope,  —  all  that  former 
confidence  in  God  which  was  founded  upon  such  wonderful  expe- 
rience as  I  had  had  of  his  goodness ;  as  if  He  that  had  fed  me  by 
miracle  hitherto  could  not  preserve  by  his  power  the  provision  which 
he  had  made  for  me  by  his  goodness  !  I  reproached  myself  with 
my  laziness,  that  would  not  sow  any  more  corn  one  year  than 
would  just  serve  me  till  the  next  season,  as  if  no  accident  would 
intervene  to  prevent  my  enjoying  the  crop  that  was  upon  the 
ground :  and  this  I  thought  so  just  a  reproof,  that  I  resolved,  for 
the  future,  to  have  two  or  three  years'  corn  beforehand ;  so  that, 
whatever  might  come,  I  might  not  perish  for  want  of  bread. 

How  strange  a  checker-work  of  Providence  is  the  life  of  man  ! 
and  by  what  secret  differing  springs  are  the  affections  hurried 
about  as  differing  circumstances  present!  To-day  we  love  what 
to-morrow  we  hate  ;  to-day  we  seek  what  to-morrow  we  shun ; 
.o-day  we  desire  what  to-morrow  we  fear,  nay,  even  tremble  at 

•e  apprehensions  of.    This  was  exemplified  in  me  at  this  time  in 


504  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

the  most  lively  manner  imaginable  :  for  I,  whose  only  affliction 
was  that  I  seemed  banished  from  human  society  ;  that  I  was  alone, 
circumscribed  by  the  boundless  ocean,  cut  off  from  mankind,  and 
condemned  to  what  I  call  a  silent  life  ;  that  I  was  as  one  whom 
Heaven  thought  not  worthy  to  be  numbered  among  the  living,  or 
to  appear  among  the  rest  of  his  creatures;  that  to  have  seen  one 
of  my  own  species  would  have  seemed  to  me  a  raising  me  from 
death  to  life,  and  the  greatest  blessing  that  Heaven  itself,  next 
to  the  supreme  blessing  of  salvation,  could  bestow,  —  I  say,  that  I 
should  now  tremble  at  the  very  apprehensions  of  seeing  a  man, 
and  was  ready  to  sink  into  the  ground  at  but  the  shadow  or  silent 
appearance  of  a  man's  having  set  his  foot  on  the  island ! 

Such  is  the  uneven  state  of  human  life;  and  it  afforded  me  a 
great  many  curious  speculations  afterwards,  when  I  had  a  little 
recovered  my  first  surprise.  I  considered  that  this  was  the  station 
of  life  the  infinitely  wise  and  good  providence  of  God  had  deter- 
mined for  me  ;  that  as  I  could  not  foresee  what  the  ends  of  Divine 
"\Visdom  might  be  in  all  this,  so  I  was  not  to  dispute  his  sover- 
eignty, who,  as  I  was  his  creature,  had  an  undoubted  right  by 
creation  to  govern  and  dispose  of  me  absolutely  as  he  thought  fit ; 
and  who,  as  I  was  a  creature  who  had  offended  him,  had  likewise 
a  judicial  right  to  condemn  me  to  what  punishment  he  thought 
fit ;  and  that  it  was  my  part  to  submit  to  bear  his  indignation, 
because  I  had  sinned  against  him. 

I  then  reflected,  that  God,  who  was  not  only  righteous,  but 
omnipotent,  as  he  had  thought  fit  thus  to  punish  and  afflict  me, 
so  he  was  able  to  deliver  me  ;  that,  if  he  did  not  think  fit  to  do  it, 
it  was  my  unquestioned  duty  to  resign  myself  absolutely  and  en- 
tirely to  his  will;  and,  on  the  other  hand,  it  was  my  duty  also  to 
hope  in  him,  pray  to  him,  and  quietly  to  attend  the  dictates  and 
directions  of  his  daily  providence. 

These  thoughts  took  me  up  many  hours,  days,  nay,  I  may  say, 
weeks  and  months.  And  one  particular  effect  of  my  cogitations  on 
this  occasion  I  can  not  omit;  viz.,  one  morning  early,  lying  in  rny 
bed,  and  filled  with  thoughts  about  my  danger  from  the  appear- 
ance of  savages,  I  found  it  discomposed  me  very  much :  upon 
which  those  words  of  the  Scripture  came  into  my  thoughts,  "  Call 
upon  Jfe  in  the  day  of  trouble,  and  I  will  deliver  thee  ;  and  thou 
shalt  glorify  me" 

Upon  this,  rising  cheerfully  out  of  my  bed,  my  heart  was  not 
only  comforted,  but  I  was  guided  and  encouraged  to  pray  earnestly 
to  God  for  deliverance.  When  I  had  done  praying,  I  took  up  my 
Bible :  and,  opening  it  to  read,  the  first  words  that  presented  to 
me  were,  "  Wait  on  the  Lord,  and  be  of  good  courage,  and  he  shall 
strengthen  thy  heart ;  wait,  I  say,  on  the  Lord"  It  is  impossible 
to  express  the  comfort  this  gave  me ;  and,  in  return,  I  thankfully 


DANIEL  DEFOE.  505 

laid  down  the  book,  and  was  no  more  sad,  —  at  least,  not  on  that 
occasion. 

In  the  middle  of  these  cogitations,  apprehensions,  and  reflec- 
tions, it  came  into  my  thoughts  one  day  that  all  this  might  be  a 
mere  chimera  of  my  own,  and  that  this  foot  might  be  the  print  of 
my  own  foot  when  I  came  on  shore  from  my  boat.  This  cheered 
me  up  a  little  too,  and  I  began  to  persuade  myself  it  was  all  a  de- 
lusion ;  that  it  was  nothing  else  but  my  own  foot.  And  why  might 
not  I  come  that  way  from  the  boat,  as  well  as  I  was  going  that 
way  to  the  boat  ?  Again  :  I  considered  also  that  I  could  by  no 
means  tell  for  certain  where  I  had  trod,  and  where  I  had  not ; 
and  that  if,  at  last,  this  was  only  the  print  of  my  own  foot,  I  had 
played  the  part  of  those  fools  who  strive  to  make  stories  of  specters 
and  apparitions,  and  then  are  themselves  frighted  at  them  more 
than  anybody  else. 

Now  I  began  to  take  courage,  and  to  peep  abroad  again ;  for  I 
had  not  stirred  out  of  my  castle  for  three  days  and  nights,  so  that 
I  began  to  starve  for  provision ;  for  I  had  little  or  nothing  within 
doors  but  some  barley-cakes  and  water.  Then  I  knew  that  my 
goats  wanted  to  be  milked  too,  which  usually  was  my  evening 
diversion  :  and  the  poor  creatures  were  in  great  pain  and  incon- 
venience for  want  of  it ;  and,  indeed,  it  almost  spoiled  some  of 
them,  and  almost  dried  up  their  milk. 

Heartening  myself,  therefore,  with  the  belief  that  this  was  noth- 
ing but  the  print  of  one  of  my  own  feet  (and  so  I  might  be  truly 
said  to  start  at  my  own  shadow),  I  began  to  go  abroad  again,  and 
went  to  my  country-house  to  milk  my  flock.  But  to  see  with  what 
fear  I  went  forward  ;  how  often  I  looked  behind  me  ;  how  I  was 
ready  every  now  and  then  to  lay  down  my  basket,  and  run  for 
my  life,  —  it  would  have  made  any  one  have  thought  I  was  haunted 
with  an  evil  conscience,  or  that  I  had  been  lately  most  terribly 
frighted  ;  and  so,  indeed,  I  had. 

However,  as  I  went  down  thus  two  or  three  days,  and  having 
seen  nothing,  I  began  to  be  a  little  bolder,  and  to  think  there  was 
really  nothing  in  it  but  my  own  imagination.  But  I  could  not  per- 
suade myself  fully  of  this  till  I  should  go  down  to  the  shore  again, 
and  see  this  print  of  a  foot,  and  measure  it  by  my  own,  and  see  if 
there  was  any  similitude  or  fitness,  that  I  might  be  assured  it  was 
my  own  foot.  But,  when  I  came  to  the  place  first,  it  appeared 
evidently  to  me,  that,  when  I  laid  up  my  boat,  I  could  not  possibly 
be  on  shore  anywhere  thereabouts.  Secondly,  when  I  came  to 
measure  the  mark  with  my  own  foot,  I  found  my  foot  not  so  large 
by  a  great  deal.  Both  these  things  filled  m^"  head  with  new  im- 
aginations, and  gave  me  the  vapors  again  to  the  highest  degree; 
so  that  I  shook  with  cold  like  one  in  an  ague :  and  I  went  home 
again,  filled  with  the  belief  that  some  man  or  men  had  been  on 


506  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

shore  there ;  or,  in  short,  that  the  island  was  inhabited,  and  I 
might  be  surprised  before  I  was  aware  ;  and  what  course  to  tako 
for  my  security,  I  knew  not.  Oh^  what  ridiculous  resolutions  men. 
take  when  possessed  with  fear !  It  deprives  them  of  the  use  of 
those  means  which  reason  offers  for  their  relief. 

The  first  thing  I  proposed  to  myself  was  to  throw  down  my  in- 
closures,  and  turn  all  my  tame  cattle  wild  into  the  woods,  lest  the 
enemy  should  find  them,  and  then  frequent  the  island  in  prospect 
of  the  same  or  the  like  booty ;  then  to  the  simple  thing  of  digging 
up  my  two  corn-fields,  lest  they  should  find  such  a  grain  there, 
and  still  be  prompted  to  frequent  the  island ;  then  to  demolish  my 
bower  and  tent,  that  they  might  not  see  any  vestiges  of  habitation, 
and  be  prompted  to  look  farther  in  order  to  find  out  the  persons 
inhabiting.  These  were  the  subjects  of  the  first  night's  cogitations 
after  I  was  come  home  again,  while  the  apprehensions  which 
had  so  overrun  my  mind  were  fresh  upon  me,  and  my  head  was 
full  of  vapors  as  above.  Thus  fear  of  danger  is  ten  thousand 
times  more  terrifying  than  danger  itself  when  apparent  to  the 
eyes ;  and  we  find  the  burden  of  anxiety  greater,  by  much,  than 
the  evil  which  we  are  anxious  about :  and,  which  was  worse  than 
all  this,  I  had  not  that  relief  in  this  trouble,  that,  from  the  resig- 
nation I  used  .to  practice,  I  hoped  to  have.  I  looked,  I  thought, 
like  Saul,  who  complained,  not  only  that  the  Philistines  were  upon 
him,  but  that  God  had  forsaken  him  :  for  I  did  not  now  take  due 
ways  to  compose  my  mind  by  crying  to  God  in  my  distress,  and 
resting  upon  his  providence,  as  I  had  done  before,  for  my  defense 
and  deliverance;  which  if  I  had  done,  I  had  at  least  been  more 
cheerfully  supported  under  this  new  surprise,  and  perhaps  carried 
through  it  with  more  resolution. 


JOSEPH    ADDISOX. 

1672-1719. 

There  is  but  one  opinion  of  his  style:  " In  a  word,  one  mav  justly  apply  to  him 
•what  Plato  in  his  allegorical  language  says  of  Aristophanes,  —  that  the"  Graces, 
having  searched  all  the  world  for  a  temple  wherein  they  might  for  ever  dwell,  settled 
at  last  in  the  breast  of  Mr.  Addison."  Dr.  Johnson  says,  u  Whoever  wishes  to 
attain  an  English  style,  familiar,  but  not  coarse,  and  elegant,  but  not  ostentatious, 
must  give  his  days  and  nights  to  the  volumes  of  Addison."  We  select  onlv  from 
his  prose. 

SICKEBSTAFF   LEARNING    FENCIXG. 

I  HATE  upon  my  chamber-walls  drawn  at  full-length  the  figures 
of  all  sorts  of  men,  from  eight  feet  to  three  feet  two  inches. 


JOSEPH  ADDISON.  507 

Within  this  hight,  I  take  it  that  all  the  fighting-men  of  Great 
Britain  are  comprehended.  But,  as  I  push,  I  make  allowances 
for  my  being  of  a  lank  and  spare  body,  and  have  chalked  out  in 
every  figure  my  own  dimensions;  for  I  scorn  to  rob  any  man  of 
his  life  by  taking  advantage  of  his  breath  :  therefore  I  press 
purely  in  a  line  down  from  his  nose,  and  take  no  more  of  him  to 
assault  than  he  has  of  me.  For,  to  speak  impartially,  if  a  lean 
fellow  wounds  a  fat  one  in  any  part  of  the  right  or  left,  whether 
it  be  in  carte  or  in  tierce,  beyond  the  dimensions  of  the  said  lean 
fellow's  own  breadth,  I  take  it  to  be  murder,  and  such  a  murder 
as  is  below  a  gentleman  to  commit.  As  I  am  spare,  I  am  also 
very  tall,  and  behave  myself,  with  relation  to  that  advantage,  with 
the  same  punctilio;  and  I  am  ready  to  stoop  or  stand,  according 
to, the  stature  of  my  adversary.  I  must  confess,  I  have  had  great 
success  this  morning,  and  have  hit  every  figure  round  the  room 
in  a  mortal  part,  without  receiving  the  least  hurt,  except  a  little 
scratch  by  falling  on  my  face  in  pushing  at  one  at  the  lower  end 
of  my  chamber ;  but  I  recovered  so  quick,  and  jumped  so  nimbly 
into  my  guard,  that,  if  he  had  been  alive,  he  could  not  have  hurt 
me.  It  is  confessed  I  have  written  against  duels  with  some 
warmth;  but,  in  all  my  discourses,  I  have  not  e.ver  said  that  I 
knew  how  a  gentleman  could  avoid  a  duel  if  he  were  provoked  to 
it:  and,  since  that  custom  is  now  become  a  law,  I  know  nothing 
but  the  legislative  power,  with  new  animadversions  upon  it,  can 
put  us  in  a  capacity  of  denying  challenges,  though  we  were  after- 
wards hanged  for  it.  But  no  more  of  this  at  present.  As  things 
stand,  I  shall  put  up  no  more  affronts ;  and  I  shall  be  so  far  from 
taking  ill  words,  that  I  will  not  take  ill  looks.  I  therefore  warn 
all  hot  young  fellows  not  to  look,  hereafter,  more  terrible  than  their 
neighbors  ;  for,  if  they  stare  at  me  with  tlieir  hats  cocked  higher 
than  other  people,  I  will  not  bear  it.  Nay,  I  give  warning  to  all 
people  in  general  to  look  kindly  at  me :  for  I  will  bear  no  frowns, 
even  from  ladies ;  and,  if  any  woman  pretends  to  look  scornfully 
at  me,  I  shall  demand  satisfaction  of  the  next  of  kin  of  the  mas- 
culine gender.  Tatkr,  No.  93. 

ON    THE    USE    OF    THE   FAN.     '  ~ 

I  DO  not  know  whether  to  call  the  following  letter  a  satire  upon 
coquettes,  or  a  representation  of  their  several  fantastical  accom- 
plishments, or  what  other  title  to  give  it ;  but,  as  it  is,  I  shall 
communicate  it  to  the  public.  It  will  sufficiently  explain  its  own 
intentions ;  so  that  I  shall  give  it  my  reader  at  length,  without 
either  preface  or  postcript :  — 

Mr.  Spectator,  —  Women  are  armed  with  fans,  as  men  with 
swords,  and  sometimes  do  more  execution  with  them.  To  the 


508  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

end,  therefore,  that  ladies  may  be  entire  mistresses  of  the  weapon 
which  they  bear,  I  have  erected  an  academy  for  the  training-up 
of  young  women  in  the  exercise  of  the  fan  according  to  the  most 
fashionable  airs  and  motions  that  are  now  practiced  at  court. 
The  ladies  who  carry  fans  under  me  are  drawn  up  twice  a  day  in 
my  great  hall,  where  they  are  instructed  in  the  use  of  their  arms, 
and  exercised  by  the  following  words  of  command :  "  Handle  your 
fans  !  "  "  Unfurl  your  fans  !  "  "  Discharge  your  fans  !  "  "  Ground 
your  fans  ! "  "  E-ecover  your  fans  !  "  "  Flutter  your  fans  !  "  By 
the  right  observation  of  these  few  plain  words  of  command,  a 
woman  of  a  tolerable  genius,  who  will  apply  herself  diligently 
to  her  exercise  for  the  space  of  but  one  half-year,  shall  be  able 
to  give  her  fan  all  the  graces  that  can  possibly  enter  into  that 
little  modish  machine. 

But,  to  the  end  that  my  readers  may  form  to  themselves  a  right 
notion  of  this  exercise,  I  beg  leave  to  explain  it  to  them  in  all 
its  parts.  When  my  female  regiment  is  drawn  up  in  array, 
with  every  one  her  weapon  in  her  hand,  upon  my  giving  the 
word  to  "  handle  their  fans,"  each  of  them  shakes  her  fan  at  me 
with  a  smile,  then  gives  her  right-hand  woman  a  tap  upon  the 
shoulder,  then  presses  her  lips  with  the  extremity  of  her  fan,  then 
lets  her  arms  fall  in  easy  motion,  and  stands  in  readiness  to  receive 
the  next  word  of  command.  All  this  is  done  with  a  close  fan, 
and  is  generally  learned  in  the  first  week. 

The  next  motion  is  that  of  unfurling  the  fan,  in  which  are  com- 
prehended several  little  flirts  and  vibrations,  as  also  gradual  and 
deliberate  openings,  with  many  voluntary  fallings-asuiider  in  the 
fan  itself,  that  are  seldom  learned  under  a  month's  practice.  This 
part  of  the  exercise  pleases  the  spectators  more  than  any  other,  as 
it  discovers,  on  a  sudden,  an  infinite  number  of  Cupids,  garlands, 
altars,  birds,  beasts,  rainbows,  and  the  like  agreeable  figures,  that 
display  themselves  to  view;  whilst  every  one  in  the  regiment 
holds  a  picture  in  her  hand. 

Upon  my  giving  the  word  to  "  discharge  their  fans,"  they  give 
one  general  crack,  that  may  be  heard  at  a  considerable  distance 
when  the  wind  sits  fair.  This  is  one  of  the  most  difficult  parts 
of  the  exercise ;  but  I  have  several  ladies  with  me,  who  at  their 
first  entrance  could  not  give  a  pop  loud  enough  to  be  heard  at  the 
farther  end  of  the  room,  who  can  now  discharge  a  fan  in  such  a 
manner^  that  it  shall  make  a  report  like  a  pocket-pistol.  I  have 
likewise  taken  care  (in  order  to  hinder  young  women  from  letting 
off  their  fans  in  wrong  places  or  on  unsuitable  occasions)  to  show 
upon  what  subject  the  crack  of  a  fan  may  come  in  properly.  I 
have  likewise  invented  a  fan  with  which  a  girl  of  sixteen,  by  the 
help  of  a  little  wind  which  is  inclosed  about  one  of  the  largest 
sticks,  can  make  as  loud  a  crack  as  a  woman  of  fifty  with  an  ordi- 
nary fan. 


JOSEPH  ADDISON.  509 

When  the  fans  are  thus  discharged,  the  word  of  command,  in 
course,  is  to  "  ground  their  fans."  This  teaches  a  lady  to  quit  her 
fan  gracefully  when  she  throws  it  aside  in  order  to  take  up  a  pack 
of  cards,  adjust  a  curl  of  hair,  replace  a  falling  pin,  or  apply  her- 
self to  any  other  matter  of  importance.  This  part  of  the  exercise, 
as  it  only  consists  in  tossing  a  fan  with  an  air  upon  a  long  table 
(which  stands  by  for  that  purpose),  may  be  learned  in  two  days' 
time  as  well  as  in  a  twelvemonth. 

When  my  female  regiment  is  thus  disarmed,  I  generally  let 
them  walk  about  the  room  for  some  time;  when,  on  a  sudden 
(like  ladies  that  look  upon  their  watches  after  a  long  visit),  they 
all  of  them  hasten  to  their  arms,  catch  them  up  in  a  hurry,  and 
place  themselves  in  their  proper  stations  upon  my  calling  out, 
"  Recover  your  fans ! "  This  part  of  the  exercise  is  not  difficult, 
provided  a  woman  applies  her  thoughts  to  it. 

The  fluttering  of  the  fan  is  the  last,  and,  indeed,  the  master- 
piece, of  the  whole  exercise ;  but,  if  a  lady  does  not  misspend  her 
time,  she  may  make  herself  mistress  of  it  in  three  months.  I 
generally  lay  aside  the  dog-days,  and  the  hot  time  of  the  summer, 
for  the  teaching  this  part  of  the  exercise ;  for  as  soon  as  ever  I 
pronounce,  "Flutter  your  fans !"  the  place  is  filled  with  so  many 
zephyrs  and  gentle  breezes  as  are  very  refreshing  in  that  season 
of  the  year,  though  they  might  be  dangerous  to  ladies  of  a  tender 
constitution  in  any  other. 

There  is  an  infinite  variety  of  motions  to  be  made  use  of  in  the 
nutter  of  a  fan.  There  is  the  angry  nutter,  the  modest  flutter, 
the  timorous  flutter,  the  confused  flutter,  the  merry  flutter,  and 
the  amorous  flutter.  Not  to  be  tedious,  there  is  scarce  any  emotion 
in  the  mind  which  does  not  produce  a  suitable  agitation  in  the 
fan ;  insomuch,  that,  if  I  only  see  the  fan  of  a  disciplined  lady,  I 
know  very  well  whether  she  laughs,  frowns,  or  blushes.  I  have 
seen  a  fan  so  very  angry,  that  it  would  have  been  dangerous  for 
the  absent  lover  who  provoked  it  to  have  come  within  the  wind 
of  it ;  and  at  other  times  so  very  languishing,  that  I  have  been 
glad,  for  the  lady's  sake,  the  lover  was  at  a  sufficient  distance 
from  it.  I  need  not  add,  that  a  fan  is  either  a  prude  or  coquette, 
according  to  the  nature  of  the  person  who  bears  it.  To  conclude 
my  letter,  I  must  acquaint  you  that  I  have  from  my  own  obser- 
vations compiled  a  little  treatise  for  the  use  of  my  scholars, 
entitled  "  The  Passions  of  the  Fan,"  which  I  will  communicate 
to  you  if  you  think  it  may  be  of  use  to  the  public.  I  shall  have 
a  general  review  on  Thursday  next,  to  which  you  shall  be  very 
welcome  if  you  will  honor  it  with  your  presence.  —  I  am,  &c. 

P.S.  —  I  teach  young  gentlemen  the  whole  art  of  gallanting  a  fan. 

N.B.  —  I  have  several  little  plain  fans  made  for  this  use  to 
avoid  expense.  Spectator,  No.  102. 


510  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


THE  LOVER'S   LEAP. 

I  SHALL  in  this  paper  discharge  myself  of  the  promise  I  have 
made  to  the  public  by  obliging  them  with  a  translation  of  the 
little  Greek  manuscript  which  is  said  to  have  been  a  piece  of 
those  records  that  were  preserved  in  the  Temple  of  Apollo  upon 
the  promontory  of  Leucate.  It  is  a  short  history  of  "  The  Lover's 
Leap,"  and  is  inscribed,  "An  account  of  persons,  male  and  female, 
who  offered  up  their  vows  in  the  temple  of  the  Pythian  Apollo  in 
the  forty-sixth  Olympiad,  and  leaped  from  the  promontorv  of 
Leucate  into  the  Ionian  Sea  in  order  to  cure  themselves  of  the 
passion  of  love." 

This  account  is  very  dry  in  many  parts,  as  only  mentioning  the 
name  of  the  lover  who  leaped,  the  person  he  leaped  for,  and  relat- 
ing, in  short,  that  he  was  either  cured  or  killed  or  maimed  by 
the  fall.  It,  indeed,  gives  the  names  of  so  many  who  died  hy  it. 
that  it  would  have  looked  like  a  bill  of  mortality  had  I  translated 
it  at  full  length  :  I  have  therefore  made  an  abridgment  of  it, 
and  only  extracted  such  particular  passages  as  have  something 
extraordinary,  either  in  the  case,  or  in  the  cure,  or  in  the  fate,  of 
the  person  who  is  mentioned  in  it.  After  this  short  preface,  take 
the  account  as  follows  :  — 

Battus,  the  son  of  Menalcas  the  Sicilian,  leaped  for  Bombyoa 
the  musician.  Got  rid  of  his  passion  with  the  loss  of  his  right  leg 
and  arm,  which  were  broken  in  the  fall. 

Melissa,  in  love  with  Daplmis.  Very  much  bruised,  but  escaped 
with  life. 

Cynisca,  the  wife  of  ^Eschines,  being  in  love  with  Lyons ;  and 
JEsehines,  her  husband,  being  in  love  with  Eurilla  (which  had 
made  this  married  couple  very  uneasy  to  one  another  for  several 
years).  Both  the  husband  and  the  wife  took  the  leap  by  consent: 
they  both  of  them  escaped,  and  have  lived  very  happily  together 
ever  since. 

Laris.sa,  a  virgin  of  Thessaly,  deserted  by  Plexippus  after  a 
courtship  of  three  years.  She  stood  upon  the  brow  of  the  promon- 
tory for  some  time  ;  and  after  having  thrown  down  a  ring,  a  brace- 
let, and  a  little  picture,  with  other  presents  which  she  had  received 
from  Plexippus,  she  threw  herself  into  the  sea,  and  was  taken  up 
alive. 

N.B.  —  Larissa,  before  she  leaped,  made  an  offering  of  a  silver 
Cupid  in  the  Temple  of  Apollo. 

Aridseus,  a  beautiful  youth  of  Epirus,  in  love  with  Praxinoe, 
the  wife  of  Thespis.  Escaped  without  damage,  saving  only  that 
two  of  his  fore-teeth  were  struck  out,  and  his  nose  a  little  flatted. 

Cleora,  a  widow  of  Ephesus,  being  inconsolable  for  the  death 


JOSEPH  ADDISOtf.  511 

of  her  husband,  was  resolved  to  take  this  leap  in  order  to  get  rid 
of  her  passion  for  his  memory ;  but,  being  arrived  at  the  promon- 
tory, she  there  met  with  Dimmachus  the  Milesian,  and,  after  a 
short  conversation  with  him,  laid  aside  the  thoughts  of  her  leap, 
and  married  him  in  the  Temple  of  Apollo. 

N.B. —  Her  widow's  weeds  are  still  seen  hanging  up  in  the 
western  corner  of  the  temple, 

Olphis  the  fisherman,  having  received  a  box  on  the  ear  from 
Thestylis  the  day  before,  and  being  determined  to  have  no  more 
to  do  with  her,  leaped,  and  escaped  with  life. 

Atalanta,  an  old  maid,  whose  cruelty  had  several  years  before 
driven  two  or  three  despairing  lovers  to  this  leap,  being  now  in 
the  fifty-fifth  year  of  her  age,  and  in  love  with  an  officer  of  Sparta, 
broke  her  neck  in  the  fall. 

Tettyx  the  dancing-master,  in  love  with  Olympia,  an  Athenian 
matron,  threw  himself  from  the  rock  with  great  agility,  but  was 
crippled  in  the  fall. 

Diagoras  the  usurer,  in  love  with  his  cook-maid.  He  peeped 
several  times  over  the  precipice;  but,  his  heart  misgiving  him,  he 
went  back,  and  married  her  that  evening. 

Eunica,  a  maid  of  Paphos,  aged  nineteen,  in  love  with  Eury- 
bates.  Hurt  in  the  fall,  but  recovered. 

N.B.  —  This  was  the  second  time  of  her  leaping. 

Hesperus,  a  young  man  of  Tarentum,  in  love  with  his  master's 
daughter.  Drowned,  the  boats  not  coming  in  soon  enough  to  his 
relief. 

Sappho  the  Lesbian,  in  love  with  Phaon,  arrived  at  the  Temple 
of  Apollo  habited  like  a  bride,  —  in  garments  as  white  as  snow. 
She  wore  a  garland  of  myrtle  on  her  head,  and  carried  in  her 
hand  the  little  musical  instrument  of  her  own  invention.  After 
having  sung  a  hymn  to  Apollo,  she  hung  up  her  garland  on  one 
side  of  his  altar,  and  her  harp  on  the  other.  She  then  tucked 
up  her  vestments  like  a  Spartan  virgin,  and  amidst  thousands 
of  spectators,  who  were  anxious  for  her  safety,  and  offered  up 
vows  for  her  deliverance,  marched  directly  forwards  to  the  utmost 
summit  of  the  promontory,  where,  after  having  repeated  a  stanza 
of  her  own  verses,  which  we  could  not  hear,  she  threw  herself 
off  the  rock  with  such  an  intrepidity  as  was  never  before  observed 
in  any  who  had  attempted  that  dangerous  leap.  Many  who 
were  present  related  that  they  saw  her  fall  into  the  sea,  from 
whence  she  never  rose  again;  though  there  were  others  who 
affirmed  that  she  never  came  to  the  bottom  of  her  leap,  but  that 
she  was  changed  into  a  swan  as  she  fell,  and  that  they  saw  her 
hovering  in  the  air  und<5r  that  shape.  But  whether  or  no  the 
whiteness  and  fluttering  of  her  garments  might  not  deceive  those 
who  looked  upon  her,  or  whether  she  might  not  really  be  meta- 


512  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

morphosed  into  that  musical  and  melancholy  bird,  is  still  a  doubt 
among  the  Lesbians. 

Alcseus,  the  famous  lyric  poet,  who  had  for  some  time  been  pas- 
sionately in  love  with  Sappho,  arrived  at  the  promontory  of  Leu- 
cate  that  very  evening,  in  order  to  take  the  leap  upon  her  account; 
but  hearing  that  Sappho  had  been  there  before  him,  and  that  her 
body  could  be  nowhere  found,  he  very  generously  lamented  her 
fall,  and  is  said  to  have  written  his  hundred  and  twenty-fifth  ode 
upon  that  occasion. 

Leaped  in  this  Olympiad,  Males  124  Females  126  Total  250 

Cured,       „.,.,„  „        51  „          69  „     120 

Spectator,  No.  233. 


DISSECTION    OF   A    BEAU'S    HEAD. 

A  VERY  wild,  extravagant  dream  employed  my  fancy  all  the 
last  night.  I  was  invited,  methought,  to  the  dissection  of  a  beau's 
head  and  a  coquette's  heart,  which  were  both  of  them  laid  on  a 
table  before  us.  An  imaginary  operator  opened  the  first  with  a 
great  deal  of  nicety,  which,  upon  a  cursory  and  superficial  view, 
appeared  like  the  head  of  another  man  :  but,  upon  applying  our 
glasses  to  it,  we  made  a  very  odd  discovery ;  namely,  that  what 
we  looked  upon  as  brains  were  not  such  in  reality,  but  a  heap  of 
strange  materials  wound  up  in  that  shape  and  texture,  and  packed 
together  with  wonderful  art  in  the  several  cavities  of  the  skull. 
For  as  Homer  tells  us  that  the  blood  of  the  gods  is  not  real  blood, 
but  only  something  like  it ;  so  we  found  that  the  brain  of  a  beau 
is  not  a  real  brain,  but  only  something  like  it. 

The  pineal  gland,  which  many  of  our  modern  philosophers  sup- 
pose to  be  the  seat  of  the  soul,  smelt  very  strong  of  essence  and 
orange-flower  water,  and  was  encompassed  with  a  kind  of  horny 
substance,  cut  into  a  thousand  little  faces  or  mirrors,  which  were 
imperceptible  to  the  naked  eye ;  insomuch  that  the  soul,  if  there 
had  been  any  here,  must  have  been  always  taken  up  in  contem- 
plating her  own  beauties. 

We  observed  a  large  antrum,  or  cavity,  in  the  sinciput,  that  was 
filled  with  ribbons,  lace,  and  embroidery,  wrought  together  in  a 
most  curious  piece  of  net-work,  the  parts  of  which  were  likewise 
imperceptible  to  the  naked  eye.  Another  of  these  antrums,  or 
cavities,  was  stuffed  with  invisible  billets-doux,  love-letters,  pricked 
dances,  and  other  trumpery  of  the  same  nature.  In  another  we 
found  a  kind  of  powder,  which  set  the  whole  company  a-sneezing, 
and  by  the  scent  discovered  itself  to  be  right  Spanish.  The  sev- 
eral other  cells  were  stored  with  commodities  of  the  same  kind,  of 
which  it  would  be  tedious  to  give  the  reader  an  exact  inventory. 

There  was  a  large  cavity  on  each  side  of  the  head,  which  I 


JOSEPH  ADDISON.  513 

must  not  omit.  That  on  the  right  side  was  filled  with  fictions, 
flatteries,  and  falsehoods,  vows,  promises,  and  protestations ;  that 
on  the  left,  with  oaths  and  imprecations.  There  issued  out  a  duct 
from  each  of  these  cells,  which  ran  into  the  root  of  the  tongue, 
where  both  joined  together,  and  passed  forward  in  one  common 
duct  to  the  tip  of  it.  We  discovered  several  little  roads  or  canals 
running  from  the  ear  into  the  brain,  and  took  particular  care  to 
trace  them  out  through  their  several  passages.  One  of  them  ex- 
tended itself  to  a  bundle  of  sonnets  and  little  musical  instruments ; 
others  ended  in  several  bladders,  which  were  filled  either  with 
wind  or  froth :  but  the  large  canal  entered  into  a  great  cavity  of 
the  skull,  from  whence  there  went  another  canal  into  the  tongue. 
This  great  cavity  was  filled  with  a  kind  of  spongy  substance, 
which  the  French  anatomists  call  galimatias;  and  the  English, 
"  nonsense." 

The  skins  of  the  forehead  were  extremely  tough  and  thick,  and, 
what  very  much  surprised  us,  had  not  in  them  any  single  blood- 
vessel that  we  were  able  to  discover  either  with  or  without  our 
glasses ;  from  whence  we  concluded  that  the  party,  when  alive, 
must  have  been  entirely  deprived  of  the  faculty  of  blushing. 

The  os  cribriforme  was  exceedingly  stuifed,  and  in  some  places 
damaged,  with  snuff.  We  could  not  but  take  notice  in  particular 
of  that  small  muscle,  which  is  not  often  discovered  in  dissection, 
and  draws  the  nose  upwards  when  it  expresses  the  contempt 
which  the  owner  of  it  has  upon  seeing  any  thing  he  does  not  like, 
or  hearing  any  thing  he  does  not  understand.  I  need  not  tell  my 
learned  reader  this  is  that  muscle  which  performs  the  motion  so 
often  mentioned  by  the  Latin  poets  when  they  talk  of  a  man's 
cocking  his  nose,  or  playing  the  rhinoceros. 

We  did  not  find  any  thing  very  remarkable  in  the  eye,  saving 
only  that  the  musculi  amatorii,  or,  as  we  may  translate  it  into 
English,  the  "ogling  muscles,"  were  very  much  worn  and  decayed 
with  use ;  whereas,  on  the  contrary,  the  elevator,  or  the  muscle 
which  turns  the  eye  towards  heaven,  did  not  appear  to  have  been 
used  at  all. 

We  were  informed  that  the  person  to  whom  this  head  belonged 
had  passed  for  a  man  above  five  and  thirty  years,  during  which 
time  he  ate  and  drank  like  other  people,  dressed  well,  talked  loud, 
laughed  frequently,  and  on  particular  occasions  had  acquitted  him- 
self tolerably  at  a  ball  or  an  assembly  ;  to  which  one  of  the  com- 
pany added,  that  a  certain  knot  of  ladies  took  him  for  a  wit.  He 
was  cut  off  in  the  flower  of  his  age  by  the  blow  of  a  paring-shovel, 
having  been  surprised  by  an  eminent  citizen  as  he  was  tendering 
some  civilities  to  his  wife. 

Our  operator  applied  himself  in  the  next  place  to  the  coquette's 
heart,  which  he  likewise  laid  open  with  great  dexterity.  There 


514  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

occurred  to  us  many  particularities  in  this  dissection;  but,  being 
unwilling  to  burden  my  reader's  memory  too  much,  I  shall  reserve 
this  subject  for  the  speculation  of  another  day. 

Spectator,  No.  275. 


DISSECTION    OF    A    COQUETTE'S    HEART. 

HAVING  already  given  an  account  of  the  dissection  of  a  beau's 
head,  with  the  several  discoveries  made  on  that  occasion,  I  shall 
here,  according  to  my  promise,  enter  upon  the  dissection  of  a  co- 
quette's heart,  and  communicate  to  the  public  such  particulars  as 
we  observed  in  that  curious  piece  of  anatomy. 

Our  operator,  before  he  engaged  in  this  visionary  dissection, 
told  us  that  there  was  nothing  in  his  art.  more  difficult  than  to  lay 
open  the  heart  of  a  coquette,  by  reason  of  the  many  labyrinths  and 
recesses  which  are  to  be  found  in  it,  and  which  do  not  appear  in 
the  heart  of  any  other  animal. 

He  desired  us,  first  of  all,  to  observe  the  pericardium,  or  out- 
ward case  of  the  heart ;  which  we  did  very  attentively,  and,  by 
the  help  of  our  glasses,  discerned  in  it  millions  of  little  scars, 
which  seemed  to  have  been  occasioned  by  the  points  of  innumera- 
ble darts  and  arrows  that  from  timo  to  time  had  glanced  upon 
the  outward  coat,  though  we  could  not  discover  the  smallest  ori- 
fice by  which  any  of  them  had  entered  and  pierced  the  inward 
substance. 

Nor  must  I  here  omit  an  experiment  one  of  the  company  assured 
us  he  himself  had  made  with  the  thin,  reddish  liquor  contained  in 
the  pericardium,  which  he  found  in  great  quantity  about  the  heart 
of  a  coquette  whom  he  had  formerly  dissected.  He  affirmed  to  us 
that  he  had  actually  inclosed  it  in  a  small  tube  made  after  the 
manner  of  a  weather-glass;  but  that,  instead  of  acquainting  him 
with  the  variations  of  the  atmosphere,  it  showed  him  the  qualities 
of  those  persons  who  entered  the  room  where  it  stood.  He  affirmed, 
also,  that  it  rose  at  the  approach  of  a  plume  of  feathers,  an  em- 
broidered coat,  or  a  pair  of  fringed  gloves ;  and  that  it  fell  as  soon 
as  an  ill-shaped  periwig,  a  clumsy  pair  of  shoes,  or  an  unfashiona- 
ble coat,  came  into  his  house.  Nay,  he  proceeded  so  far  as  to  as- 
sure us,  that,  upon  his  laughing  aloud  when  he  stood  by  it,  the 
liquor  mounted  very  sensibly,  and  immediately  sank  again  upon 
his  looking  serious.  In  short,  he  told  us  that  he  knew  very  well, 
by  this  invention,  whenever  he  had  a  man  of  sense  or  a  coxcomb 
in  his  room. 

Having  cleared  away  the  pericardium,  or  the  case,  and  liquor 
above  mentioned,  we  came  to  the  heart  itself.  The  outward  sur- 
face of  it  was  extremely  slippery,  and  the  mucro,  or  point,  so  very 


JOSEPH  ADDISON.  515 

cold  withal,  that,  upon  endeavoring  to  take  hold  of  it,  it  glided 
through  the  fingers  like  a  smooth  piece  of  ice. 

The  fibers  were  turned  and  twisted  in  a  more  intricate  and  per- 
plexed manner  than  they  are  usually  found  in  other  hearts,  inso- 
much that  the  whole  heart  was  wound  up  together  in  a  Gordian 
knot,  and  must  have  had  very  irregular  and  unequal  motions 
while  it  was  employed  in  its  vital  function. 

Upon  weighing  the  heart  in  my  hand,  I  found  it  to  be  extremely 
light,  and  consequently  very  hollow ;  which  I  did  not  wonder  at, 
when,  upon  looking  into  the  inside  of  it,  I  saw  multitudes  of  cells 
and  cavities  running  one  within  another,  as  our  historians  describe 
the  apartments  of  Rosamond's  bower.  Several  of  these  little  hol- 
lows were  stuffed  with  innumerable  sorts  of  trifles,  which  I  shall 
forbear  giving  any  particular  account  of,  and  shall  therefore  only 
take  notice  of  what  lay  first  and  uppermost,  which  upon  our  un- 
folding it,  and  applying  our  microscopes  to  it,  appeared  to  be  a 
flame-colored  hood. 

We  are  informed  that  the  lady  of  this  heart,  when  living,  re- 
ceived the  addresses  of  several  who  made  love  to  her,  and  did  not 
only  give  each  of  them  encouragement,  but  made  every  one  she 
conversed  with  believe  that  she  regarded  him  with  an  eye  of  kind- 
ness ;  for  which  reason  we  expected  to  have  seen  the  impressions 
of  multitudes  effaces  among  the  several  plaits  and  foldings  of  the 
heart :  but,  to  our  great  surprise,  not  a  single  print  of  this  nature 
discovered  itself  until  we  came  into  the  very  core  and  center  of  it. 
We  there  observed  a  little  figure,  which,  upon  applying  our  glasses 
to  it,  appeared  dressed  in  a  very  fantastic  manner.  The  more  I 
looked  upon  it,  the  more  I  thought  I  had  seen  the  face  before, 
but  could  not  possibly  recollect  either  the  place  or  time ;  when  at 
length  one  of  the  company,  who  had  examined  this  figure  more 
nicely  than  the  rest,  showed  us  plainly  by  the  make  of  its  face, 
and  the  several  turns  of  its  features,  that  the  little  idol  which  was 
thus  lodged  in  the  very  middle  of  the  heart  was  the  deceased  beau 
whose  head  I  gave  some  account  of  in  my  last  Tuesday's  paper. 

As  soon  as  we  had  finished  our  dissection,  we  resolved  to  make 
an  experiment  of  the  heart,  not  being  able  to  determine  among 
ourselves  the  nature  of  its  substance,  which  differed  in  so  many 
particulars  from  that  of  the  heart  in  other  females.  Accordingly, 
we  laid  it  in  a  pan  of  burning  coals,  when  we  observed  in  it  a 
certain  salamandriiie  quality,  that  made  it  capable  of  living  in  the 
midst  of  fire  and  flame,  without  being  consumed,  or  so  much  as 
singed, 

As  we  were  admiring  this  strange  phenomenon,  and  standing 
round  the  heart  in  a  circle,  it  gave  a  most  prodigious  sigh,  or  rather 
crack,  and  dispersed  all  at  once  in  smoke  and  vapor.  This  imagi- 
nary noise,  which,  methought,  was  louder  than  the  burst  of  a 


516  ENGLISH  LITERATUHE. 

cannon,  produced  such  a  violent  shake  in  my  brain,  that  it  dissi- 
pated the  fumes  of  sleep,  and  left  me  in  an  instant  broad  awake. 

Spectator,  No.  281. 

VISIT    TO  SIX  ROGER    IN  THE    COUNTRY. 

HAVIXG  often  received  an  invitation  from  my  friend  Sir  Roger 
de  Coverley  to  pass  away  a  month  with  him  in  the  country,  I  last 
week  accompanied  him  thither,  and  am  settled  with  him  for 
some  time  at  his  country-house,  where  I  intend  to  form  several 
of  my  ensuing  speculations.  Sir  Roger,  who  is  very  well  ac- 
quainted with  my  humor,  lets  me  rise  and  go  to  bed  when  I 
please  ;  dine  at  his  own  table  or  in  my  chamber,  as  I  think  fit ;  sit 
still  and  say  nothing,  without  bidding  me  be  merry.  AYhen  the 
gentlemen  of  the  country  come  to  see  him,  he  only  shows  me 
at  a  distance.  As  I  have  been  walking  in  his  fields,  I  have 
observed  them  stealing  a  sight  of  me  over  a  hedge,  and  have 
heard  the  knight  desiring  them  not  to  let  me  see  them,  for  that 
I  hated  to  be  stared  at. 

I  am  the  more  at  ease  in  Sir  Roger's  family  because  it  consists 
of  sober  and  staid  persons;  for,  as  the  knight  is  the  best  master  in 
the  world,  he  seldom  changes  his  servants ;  and,  as  he  is  beloved 
by  all  about  him,  his  servants  never  care  for  leaving  him  :  by 
this  means,  his  domestics  are  all  in  years,  and  grown  old  wTith  their 
master.  You  would  take  his  valet-de-chamlre  for  his  brother ;  his 
butler  is  gray-headed  ;  his  groom  is  one  of  the  gravest  men  that  I 
have  ever  seen ;  and  his  coachman  has  the  looks  of  a  privy-coun- 
cilor. You  see  the  goodness  of  the  master  even  in  the  old  house- 
dog, and  in  a  gray  pad  that  is  kept  in  the  stable  with  great  care 
and  tenderness  out  of  regard  to  his  past  services,  though  he  has 
been  useless  for  several  years. 

I  could  not  but  observe  with  a  great  deal  of  pleasure  the  joy 
that  appeared  in  the  countenances  of  these  ancient  domestics 
upon  my  friend's  arrival  at  his  country-seat.  Some  of  them 
could  not  refrain  from  tears  at  the  sight  of  their  old  master :  every 
•  one  of  them  pressed  forward  to  do  something  for  him,  and  seemed 
discouraged  if  they  were  not  employed.  At  the  same  time,  the 
good  old  knight,  with  a  mixture  of  the  father  and  the  master  of 
the  family,  tempered  the  inquiries  after  his  own  affairs  with  several 
kind  questions  relating  to  themselves.  This  humanity  and  good 
nature  engages  everybody  to  him  ;  so  that,  when  he  is  pleasant 
upon  any  of  them,  all  his  family  are  in  good  humor,  and  none  so 
much  as  the  person  whom  he  diverts  himself  with  :  on  the  con- 
traiy,  if  he  coughs,  or  betrays  any  infirmity  of  old  age,  it  is  easy 
for  a  stander-by  to  observe  a  secret  concern  in  the  looks  of  all  his 
servants. 


JOSEPH  ADDISON.  517 

My  worthy  friend  has  put  me  under  the  particular  care  of 
his  butler,  who  is  a  very  prudent  man,  and,  as  well  as  the  rest 
of  his  fellow-servants,  wonderfully  desirous  of  pleasing  me,  be- 
cause they  have  often  heard  their  master  talk  of  me  as  of  his 
particular  friend. 

My  chief  companion,  when  Sir  Roger  is  diverting  himself  in  the 
woods  or  the  fields,  is  a  very  venerable  man,  who  is  ever  with  Sir 
Roger,  and  has  lived  at  his  house  in  the  nature  of  a  chaplain 
above  thirty  years.  This  gentleman  is  a  person  of  good  sense  and 
some  learning,  of  a  very  regular  life  and  obliging  conversation. 
He  heartily  loves  Sir  Roger,  and  knows  that  he  is  very  much  in 
the  old  knight's  esteem :  so  that  he  lives  in  the  family  rather  as  a 
relation  than  a  dependant. 

I  have  observed  in  several  of  my  papers  that  my  friend  Sir 
Roger,  amidst  all  his  good  qualities,  is  something  of  a  humorist ; 
and  that  his  virtues,  as  well  as  imperfections,  are,  as  it  were, 
tinged  by  a  certain  extravagance  which  makes  them  particularly 
his,  and  distinguishes  them  from  those  of  other  men.  This  cast 
of  mind,  as  it  is  generally  very  innocent  in  itself,  so  it  renders 
his  conversation  highly  agreeable,  and  more  delightful  than  the 
same  degree  of  sense  and  virtue  would  appear  in  their  common 
and  ordinary  colors.  As  I  was  walking  with  him  last  night,  he 
asked  me  how  I  liked  the  good  man  whom  I  have  just  now  men- 
tioned, and,  without  staying  for  my  answer,  told  me  that  he  was 
afraid  of  being  insulted  with  Latin  and  Greek  at  his  own  table ; 
for  which  reason  he  desired  a  particular  friend  of  his  at  the  uni- 
versity to  find  him  out  a  clergyman  rather  of  plain  sense  than 
much  learning,  of  a  good  aspect,  a  clear  voice,  a  sociable  temper, 
and,  if  possible,  a  man  that  understood  a  little  of  backgammon. 
"  My  friend,"  says  Sir  Roger,  "  found  me  out  this  gentleman, 
who,  besides  the  endowments  required  of  him,  is,  they  tell  me,  a 
good  scholar,  though  he  does  not  show  it.  I  have  given  him  the 
parsonage  of  the  parish,  and,  because  I  know  his  value,  have 
settled  upon  him  a  good  annuity  for  life.  If  he  outlives  me,  he 
shall  find  that  he  was  higher  in  my  esteem  than  perhaps  he 
thinks  he  is.  He  has  now  been  with  me  thirty  years,  and,  though 
he  does  not  know  I  have  taken  notice  of  it,  has  never  in  all  that 
time  asked  any  thing  of  me  for  himself;  though  he  is  every  day 
soliciting  me  for  something  in  behalf  of  one  or  other  of  my 
tenants,  his  parishioners.  There  has  not  been  a  lawsuit  in  the 
parish  since  he  has  lived  among  them.  If  any  dispute  arises,  they 
apply  themselves  to  him  for  the  decision  :  if  they  do  not  acquiesce 
in  his  judgment,  which  I  think  never  happened  above  once  or 
twice  at  most,  they  appeal  to  me.  At  his  first  settling  with  me,  I 
made  him  a  present  of  all  the  good  sermons  which  have  been 
printed  in  English,  and  only  begged  of  him  that  every  Sunday  he 


518  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

would  pronounce  one  of  them  in  the  pulpit.  Accordingly,  he  has 
digested  them  into  such  a  series,  that  they  follow  one  another 
naturally,  and  make  a  continued  system  of  practical  divinity." 

As  Sir  Roger  was  going  on  in  his  story,  the  gentleman  we  were 
talking  of  came  up  to  us ;  and,  upon  the  knight's  asking  him  who 
preached  to-morrow  (for  it  was  Saturday  night),  told  us,  the 
Bishop  of  St.  Asaph  in  the  morning,  and  Dr.  South  in  the  after- 
noon. He  then  showed  us  his  list  of  preachers  for  the  whole 
year,  where  I  saw,  with  a  great  deal  of  pleasure,  Archbishop 
Tillotson,  Bishop  Saunderson,  Dr.  Barrow,  Dr.  Calamy,  with 
several  living  authors  who  have  published  discourses  of  practical 
divinity.  I  no  sooner  saw  this  venerable  man  in  the  pulpit  but 
I  very  much  approved  of  my  friend's  insisting  upon  the  qualifica- 
tions of  a  good  aspect  and  a  clear  voice ;  for  I  was  so  charmed 
with  the  gracefulness  of  his  figure  and  delivery,  as  well  as  with 
the  discourses  he  pronounced,  that  I  think  I  never  passed  any 
time  more  to  my  satisfaction.  A  sermon  repeated  after  this 
manner  is  like  the  composition  of  a  poet  in  the  mouth  of  a  grace- 
ful actor. 

I  could  heartily  wish  that  more  of  our  country  clergy  would 
follow  this  example,  and,  instead  of  wasting  their  spirits  in  la- 
borious compositions  of  their  own,  would  endeavor  after  a  hand- 
some elocution,  and  all  those  other  talents  that  are  proper  to 
enforce  what  has  been  penned  by  great  masters.  This  would 
not  only  be  more  easy  to  themselves,  but  more  edifying  to  the 
people.  Spectator,  No.  106. 


SIR    ROGER   AT    CHURCH. 

I  AM  always  very  well  pleased  with  a  country  Sunday,  and 
think,  if  keeping  holy  the  seventh  day  were  only  a  human  insti- 
tution, it  would  be  the  best  method  that  could  have  been  thought 
of  for  the  polishing  and  civilizing  of  mankind.  It  is  certain  the 
country-people  would  soon  degenerate  into  a  kind  of  savages  and 
barbarians  were  there  not  such  frequent  returns  of  a  stated  time, 
in  which  the  whole  village  meet  together  with  their  best  faces, 
and  in  their  cleanliest  habits,  to  converse  with  one  another  upon 
different  subjects,  hear  their  duties  explained  to  them,  and  join 
together  in  adoration  of  the  Supreme  Being.  Sunday  clears 
away  the  rust  of  the  whole  week,  not  only  as  it  refreshes  in  their 
minds  the  notions  of  religion,  but  as  it  puts  both  the  sexes  upon 
appearing  in  their  most  agreeable  forms,  and  exerting  all  such 
qualities  as  are  apt  to  give  them  a  figure  in  the  eye  of  the  village. 
A  country-fellow  distinguishes  himself  as  much  in  the  churchyard 
as  a  citizen  does  upon  the  Change  ;  the  whole  parish  politics  being 


JOSEPH  ADDISOK  519 

generally  discussed  in  that  place,  either  after  sermon,  or  before 
the  bell  rings. 

My  friend  Sir  Eoger,  being  a  good  Churchman,  has  beautified 
the  inside  of  his  church  with  several  texts  of  his  own  choosing, 
lie  has  likewise  given  a  handsome  pulpit-cloth,  and  railed  in  the 
communion-table  at  his  own  expense.  He  has  often  told  me,  that, 
at  his  coming  to  his  estate,  he  found  his  parishioners  very  irregular; 
and  that,  in  order  to  make  them  kneel  and  join  in  the  responses, 
lie  gave  every  one  of  them  a  hassock  and  a  common-prayer  book, 
and  at  the  same  time  employed  an  itinerant  singing-master  (who 
goes  about  the  country  for  that  purpose)  to  instruct  them  rightly 
in  the  tunes  of  the  Psalms ;  upon  which  they  now  very  much 
value  themselves,  and  indeed  outdo  most  of  the  country  churches 
that  I  have  ever  heard. 

As  Sir  Roger  is  landlord  to  the  whole  congregation,  he  keeps 
them  in  very  good  order,  and  will  suffer  nobody  to  sleep  in  it 
besides  himself;  for  if,  by  chance,  he  has  been  surprised  into  a 
short  nap  at  sermon,  upon  recovering  out  of  it  he  stands  up  and 
looks  about  him,  and,  if  he  sees  anybody  else  nodding,  either 
wakes  them  himself,  or  sends  his  servants  to  them.  Several  other 
of  the  old  knight's  particularities  break  out  upon  these  occasions. 
Sometimes  he  will  be  lengthening  out  a  verse  in  the  singing 
Psalms  half  a  minute  after  the  rest  of  the  congregation  have 
done  with  it ;  sometimes,  when  he  is  pleased  with  the  matter  of  his 
devotion,  he  pronounces  "Amen"  three  or  four  times  to  the  same 
prayer;  and  sometimes  stands  up,  when  everybody  else  is  upon 
their  knees,  to  count  the  congregation,  or  see  if  any  of  his  tenants 
are  missing. 

I  was  yesterday  very  much  surprised  to  hear  my  old  friend,  in 
the  midst  of  the  service,  calling  out  to  one  John  Matthews  to 
mind  what  he  was  about,  and  not  disturb  the  congregation.  This 
John  Matthews,  it  seems,  is  remarkable  for  being  an  idle  fellow; 
and,  at  that  time,  was  kicking  his  heels  for  his  diversion.  This 
authority  of  the  knight,  though  exerted  in  that  odd  manner 
which  accompanies  him  in  all  the  circumstances  of  life,  has  a 
very  good  effect  upon  the  parish,  who  are  not  polite  enough  to  see 
any  thing  ridiculous  in  his  behavior :  besides  that,  the  general 
good  sense  and  worthiness  of  his  character  make  his  friends  ob- 
serve these  little  singularities  as  foils  that  rather  set  off  than 
blemish  his  good  qualities. 

As  soon  as  the  sermon  is  finished,  nobody  presumes  to  stir  till 
Sir  Roger  is  gone  out  of  the  church.  The  knight  walks  down 
from  his  seat  in  the  chancel  between  a  double  row  of  his  tenants 
that  stand  bowing  to  him  on  each  side,  and  every  now  and  then 
inquires  how  such  a  one's  wife  or  mother  or  son  or  father  does 
whom  lie  does  not  see  at  church  ;  which  is  understood  as  a  secret 
reprimand  to  the  person  that  is  absent. 


520  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

The  chaplain  has  often  told  me,  that  upon  a  catechising  day, 
when  Sir  Roger  has  been  pleased  with  a  boy  that  answers  well,  he 
has  ordered  a  Bible  to  be  given  him  next  day  for  his  encour- 
agement, and  sometimes  accompanies  it  with  a  flitch  of  bacon  to 
his  mother.  Sir  Roger  has  likewise  added  five  pounds  a  year  to 
the  clerk's  place ;  and,  that  he  may  encourage  the  young  fellows 
to  make  themselves  perfect  in  the  church-service,  has  promised, 
upon  the  death  of  the  present  incumbent,  who  is  very  old,  to 
bestow  it  according  to  merit.  Spectator,  No.  112. 


OTHER   WRITERS    OF   DISTINCTION. 

Sir  ISAAC  NEWTON.  — 1642-1727.  Distinguished  philosopher.  "Optics;" 
"  Principia,"  in  Latin;  "  The  Prophecies;"  and  several  other  works. 

Sir  RICHARD  STEELE.  —  1675-1729.  The  witty  partner  with  Addison  in  "  The 
Tatler,"  started  by  Steele;  and  followed  by  the  "  Guardian  "  and  "  Spectator,"  —  the 
first  important  periodicals  of  English  literature,  —  ''The  Conscious  Lovers,"  and 
other  short-lived  comedies. 

ISAAC  WAITS.  — 1674-1748.  "Hymns,"  "  Logic,"  and  "Improvement  of  the 
Mind." 

NICHOLAS  ROWE.  —  1673-1718.  "  The  Fair  Penitent,"  "  Jane  Shore,"  and  other 
plays. 

AMBROSE  PHILLIPS.  — 1675-1749.    "Pastorals." 

THOMAS  PARNELL.  — 1679-1718.     "  The  Hermit." 

THOMAS  TICKELL.  — 1686-1740.  "Colin  and  Lucy,"  a  ballad;  "Kensington 
Gardens;  "  and  contributions  to  the  "  Spectator"  and  "Guardian." 

ALLAN  RAMSAY.  — 1686-1758.    "  The  Gentle  Shepherd,"  a  pastoral  drama. 

JOHN  GAY.— 1688-1732.  "  Fables,"  "  Beggar's  Opera,"  and  song  of  "  Black- 
eyed  Susan." 

RICHAKD  SAVAGE.  — 1697-1729.    "  The  Wanderer." 
ROBERT  BLAIR.  — 1699-1746.     "  The  Grave." 

JOHN  DYER,  — 1698-1758.  "  Grongar  Hill,"  "The  Ruins  of  Rome,"  and  "  The 
Fleece." 

ANTHONY  ASHLEY  COOPER  (Earl  of  Shaftesbury).  — 1621-1683.  "Charac- 
teristics of  Men,  Manners,  Opinions,  and  Times." 

SAMUEL  CLARKE.  — 1675-1729.     Theological  and  metaphysical  works. 
HENRY  ST.  JOHN  (Viscount  Bolingbroke).  —  1678-1751.   "  Reflections  on  Exile," 
"  Letters  on  the  Stiidy  of  History."   "  Letters  on  the    Spirit  of  Patriotism,"  and 
"  Idea  of  a  Patriot  King."     The  friend  (St.  John)  of  Pope's  "  Essay." 

GEORGE  BERKELEY.  — 1684-1753.    "  Theory  of  Vision."   A  distinguished  meta- 
physician, whose  philosophy  would  disprove  the  existence  of  matter. 
Lady  MARY  WORTLEY  MONTAGU.  — 1690-1761.     "Letters." 
PHILIP  STANHOPE  (Earl  of  Chesterfield). —  1694-1773.    "Letters  to  his  Son." 
HENRY  HOMES  (Lord  Kames).—  1696-1782.    "The  Elements  of  Criticism." 
THOMAS  YALDEN.  WILLIAM  SOMERVILLE. 

HENRY  GROVE.  ELIZABETH  ROWE. 

BARTON  BOOTH.  ANSE  FINCH. 

ESTHER  VANIIOMRIGH. 


JOHN   DEYDEN.  521 

JOHN   DKTDEK 

1631-1700. 

Distinguished  writer  of  prose  and  poetry.  Author  of  about  thirty  plays.  His 
prefaces  and  dedications  are  fine  specimens  of  English.  We  select  from'his  best 
known  work,  —  the  translation  of  Virgil. 

ARMS  and  the  man  I  sing,  who,  forced  by  fate 
And  haughty  Juno's  unrelenting  hate, 
Expelled  and  exiled,  left  the  Trojan  shore. 
Long  labors,  both  by  sea  and  land,  he  bore ; 
And  in  the  doubtful  war,  before  he  won 
The  Latin  realm  and  built  the  destined  town, 
His  banished  gods  restored  to  rights  divine, 
And  settled  sure  succession  in  his  line  ; 
From  whence  the  race  of  Alban  fathers  come, 
And  the  long  glories  of  majestic  Rome. 

O  Muse  !  the  causes  and  the  crimes  relate,  — 
What  goddess  was  provoked,  and  whence  her  hate ; 
For  what  offense  the  Queen  of  Heaven  began 
To  persecute  so  brave,  so  just  a  man, 
Involved  his  anxious  life  in  endless  cares, 
Exposed  to  wants,  and  hurried  into  wars : 
Can  heavenly  minds  such  high  resentment  show, 
Or  exercise  their  spite  in  human  woe  ? 

Against  the  Tiber's  mouth,  but  far  away, 
An  ancient  town  was  seated  on  the  sea, — 
A  Tyrian  colony ;  the  people  made 
Stout  for  the  war,  and  studious  of  their  trade ; 
Carthage  the  name,  beloved  by  Juno  more 
Than  her  own  Argos  or  the  Samian  shore. 
Here  stood  her  chariot ;  here,  if  Heaven  were  kind, 
The  seat  of  awful  empire  she  designed. 
Yet  she  had  heard  an  ancient  rumor  fly, 
(Long  cited  by  the  people  of  the  sky,) 
That  times  to  come  should  see  the  Trojan  race 
Her  Carthage  ruin,  and  her  towers  deface ; 
Nor,  thus  confined,  the  yoke  of  sovereign  sway 
Should  on  the  necks  of  all  the  nations  lay. 
She  pondered  this,  and  feared  it  was  in  fate  ; 
Nor  could  forget  the  war  she  waged  of  late, 
For  conquering  Greece,  apainst  the  Trojan  state. 
Besides,  long  causes  working  in  her  mind, 
And  secret  seeds  of  envy,  lay  behind. 
Deep  graven  in  her  heart,  the  doom  remained 
Of  partial  Paris,  and  her  form  disdained  ; 
The  grace  bestowed  on  ravished  Ganymede ; 
Eleetra's  glories,  and  her  injured  bed, — 
Each  was  a  cause  alone  ;  and  all  combined 
To  kiutlle  vengeance  in  her  haughty  niiud. 


522  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

For  this,  far  distant  from  the  Latin  coast, 

She  drove  the  remnants  of  the  Trojan  host; 

And  seven  long  years  the  unhappy  wandering  train 

Were  tossed  by  storms,  and  scattered  through  the  main. 

Such  time,  such  toil,  required  the  Roman  name, 

Such  length  of  labor,  for  so  vast  a  frame. 

Now  scarce  the  Trojan  fleet  with  sails  and  oars 
Had  left  behind  the  fair  Sicilian  shores, 
Entering  with  cheerful  shouts  the  watery  reign, 
And  plowing  frothy  furrows  in  the  main, 
When,  laboring  still,  with  endless  discontent 
The  Queen  of  Heaven  did  thus  her  fury  vent :  — 

"  Then  am  I  vanquished  V  must  I  yield  ?  "  said  she, 
"  And  must  the  Trojans  reign  in  Italy  ? 
So  Fate  will  have  it,  and  Jove  adds  his  force; 
Nor  can  my  power  divert  their  happy  course. 
Could  angry  Pallas,  with  revengeful  spleen, 
The  Grecian  navy  burn,  and  drown  the  men  ? 
She,  for  the  fault  of  one  offending  foe, 
The  bolts  of  Jove  himself  presumed  to  throw ; 
With  whirlwinds  from  beneath  she  tossed  the  ship, 
And  bare  exposed  the  bosom  of  the  deep : 
Then,  as  an  eagle  gripes  the  trembling  game, 
The  wretch,  yet  hissing  with  her  father's  flame, 
She  strongly  seized,  and  with  a  burning  wound, 
Transfixed  and  naked,  on  a  rock  she  bound. 
But  I,  who  walked  in  awful  state  above, 
The  majesty  of  heaven,  the  sister-wife  of  Jove, 
For  length  of  years  my  fruitless  force  employ 
Against  the  thin  remains  of  ruined  Troy. 
What  nations  now  to  Juno's  power  will  pray, 
Or  offerings  on  my  slighted  altars  lay  V  " 

Thus  raged  the  goddess ;  and,  with  fury  fraught, 
The  restless  regions  of  the  storms  she  sought, 
Where  in  a  spacious  cave  of  living  stone 
The  tyrant  .ZEolus  from  his  airy  throne 
With  power  imperial  curbs  the  struggling  winds, 
And  sounding  tempests  in  dark  prisons  binds. 
This  way  and  that,  the  impatient  captives  tend, 
And,  pressing  for  release,  the  mountains  rend. 
High  in  his  hall  the  undaunted  monarch  stands, 
And  shakes  his  scepter,  and  their  rage  commands  : 
Which  did  he  not,  their  unresisted  sway 
Would  sweep  the  world  before  them  in  their  way ; 
Earth,  air,  and  seas  through  empty  space  would  roll, 
And  heaven  would  fly  before  the  driving  soul. 
In  fear  of  this,  the  father  of  the  gods 
Confined  their  fury  to  those  dark  abodes, 

And  locked  them  safe  within,  oppressed  with  mountain-loads ; 
Imposed  a  king,  with  arbitrary  sway, 
To  loose  their  fetters,  or  their  force  allay. 
To  whom  the  suppliant  queen  her  prayers  addressed, 
And  thus  the  tenor  of  her  suit  expressed :  -— 


JOHN  DRYDEN.  523 

"  O  JSolus !  for  to  thee  the  King  of  Heaven 
The  power  of  tempests  and  of  winds  has  given ; 
Thy  force  alone  their  fury  can  restrain, 
And  smooth  the  waves,  or  swell  the  troubled  main: 
A  race  of  wandering  slaves,  abhorred  by  me, 
With  prosperous  passage  cut  the  Tuscan  Sea; 
To  fruitful  Italy  their  course  they  steer, 
And  for  their  vanquished  gods  design  new  temples  there. 
Raise  all  thy  winds ;  with  night  involve  the  skies : 
Sink  or  disperse  my  fatal  enemies  ! 
Twice  seven,  the  charming  daughters  of  the  main, 
Around  my  person  wait,  and  bear  my  train. 
Succeed  my  wish,  and  second  my  design, 
The  fairest,  Deiopeia,  shall  be  thine, 
And  make  thee  father  of  a  happy  line." 

To  this  the  god :  "  'Tis  yours,  O  queen  !  to  will 
The  work  which  duty  bids  me  to  fulfill. 
These  airy  kingdoms  and  this  wide  command 
Are  all  the  presents  of  your  bounteous  hand  ; 
Yours  is  my  sovereign's  grace  ;  and,  as  your  guest, 
I  sit  with  gods  at  their  celestial  feast ; 
Raise  tempests  at  your  pleasure,  or  subdue  ; 
Dispose  of  empire  which  I  hold  from  you." 

He  said,  and  hurled  against  the  mountain-side 
His  quivering  spear,  and  all  the  god  applied. 
The  raging  winds  rush  through  the  hollow  wound, 
And  dance  aloft  in  air,  and  skim  along  the  ground ; 
Then,  settling  on  the  sea,  the  surges  sweep, 
Raise  liquid  mountains,  and  disclose  the  deep. 
South,  East,  and  West,  with  mixed  confusion  roar, 
And  roll  the  foaming  billows  to  the  shore. 
The  cables  crack  ;   the  sailors'  fearful  cries 
Ascend  ;  and  sable  night  involves  the  skies  ; 
And  heaven  itself  is  ravished  from  their  eyes. 
Loud  peals  of  thunder  from  the  poles  ensue ; 
Then  flashing,  fires  the  transient  light  renew  : 
The  face  of  things  a  frightful  image  bears ; 
And  present  death  in  various  forms  appears. 
Struck  with  unusual  fright,  the  Trojan  chief, 
With  lifted  hands  and  eyes,  invokes  relief:  — 

"  And  thrice  and  four  times  happy  those,"  he  cried, 
"  That  under  Ilian  walls  before  their  parents  died  I 
Tydides,  bravest  of  the  Grecian  train, 
Why  could  not  I  by  that  strong  arm  be  slain, 
And  lie  by  noble  Hector  on  the  plain ; 
Or  great  Sarpedon,  in  those  bloody  fields 
Where  Simois  rolls  the  bodies  and  the  shields 
Of  heroes  whose  dismembered  hands  yet  bear 
The  dart  aloft,  and  clinch  the  pointed  spear  ?  " 

Thus  while  the  pious  prince  his  fate  bewails, 
Fierce  Boreas  drove  against  his  flying  sails, 
And  rent  the  sheets.     The  raging  billows  rise, 
And  mount  the  tossing  vessel  to  the  skies ; 


624  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Nor  can  the  shivering  oars  sustain  the  blow  : 

The  galley  gives  her  side,  and  turns  her  prow ; 

While  those  astern,  descending  down  the  steep, 

Through  gaping  waves  behold  the  boiling  deep. 

Three  ships  were  hurried  by  the  southern  blast, 

And  on  the  secret  shelves  with  fury  cast. 

Those  hidden  rocks  the  Ausonian  sailors  knew  : 

They  called  them  altars  when  they  rose  in  view, 

And  showed  their  spacious  backs  above  the  flood. 

Three  more  fierce  Eurus  in  his  angry  mood 

Dashed  on  the  shallows  of  the  moving  sand, 

And  in  mid  ocean  left  them  moored  aland. 

Orontes'  bark,  that  bore  the  Lycian  crew 

(A  horrid  sight)  even  in  the  hero's  view, 

From  stem  to  stern  by  waves  was  overborne. 

The  trembling  pilot,  from  his  rudder  torn, 

Was  headlong  hurled  :  thrice  round  the  ship  was  tossed ; 

Then  bilged  at  once,  and  in  the  deep  was  lost. 

And  here  and  there  above  the  waves  were  seen 

Arms,  pictures,  precious  goods,  and  floating  men. 

The  stoutest  vessel  to  the  storm  gave  way, 

And  sucked  through  loosened  planks  the  rushing  sea. 

Ilioneus  was  her  chief.     Alethes  old, 

Achates  faithful,  Abas  young  and  bold, 

Endured  not  less :  their  ships,  with  gaping  seams, 

Admit  the  deluge  of  the  briny  streams. 

Meantime  imperial  Neptune  heard  the  sound 
Of  raging  billows  breaking  on  the  ground  : 
Displeased,  and  fearing  for  his  watery  reign, 
He  reared  his  awful  head  above  the  main, 
Serene  in  majesty,  then  rolled  his  eyes 
Around  the  space  of  earth,  the  seas  and  skies. 
He  saw  the  Trojan  fleet  dispersed,  distressed, 
By  stormy  winds  and  wintry  heaven  oppressed. 
Full  well  the  god  his  sister's  envy  knew, 
And  what  her  aims,  and  what  her  arts  pursue. 
He  summoned  Eurus  and  the  western  blast ; 
And  first  an  angry  glance  on  both  he  cast ; 
Then  thus  rebuked :  "  Audacious  winds !  from  whence 
This  bold  attempt,  this  rebel  insolence  ? 
Is  it  for  you  to  ravage  seas  and  land, 
Unauthorized  by  my  supreme  command  ? 
To  raise  such  mountains  on  the  troubled  main  ? 
Whom  I —     But  first  'tis  fit  the  billows  to  restrain, 
And  then  you  shall  be  taught  obedience  to  my  reign. 
Hence  to  your  lord  my  royal  mandate  bear  : 
The  realms  of  ocean,  and  the  fields  of  air, 
Are  mine,  not  his ;  by  fatal  lot  to  me 
The  liquid  empire  fell,  and  trident  of  the  sea. 
His  power  to  hollow  caverns  is  confined  : 
There  let  him  reign,  the  jailer  of  the  wind ; 
With  hoarse  commands  his  breathing  subjects  call ; 
And  boast  and  bluster  in  his  empty  hall." 


JOHN  DKYDEN.  525 

He  spoke ;  and,  while  he  spoke,  he  smoothed  the  sea, 
Dispelled  the  darkness,  and  restored  the  day. 
Cymothoe,  Triton,  and  the  sea-green  train 
Of  beauteous  nymphs,  the  daughters  of  the  main, 
Clear  from  the  rocKs  the  vessels  with  their  hands : 
The  god  himself  with  ready  trident  stands, 
And  opes  the  deep,  and  spreads  the  moving  sands; 
Then  heaves  them  off  the  shoals.     Where'er  he  guides 
His  finny  coursers,  and  in  triumph  rides, 
The  waves  unruffle,  and  the  sea  subsides. 
As  when  in  tumults  rise  the  ignoble  crowd, 
Mad  are  their  motions,  and  their  tongues  are  loud ; 
And  stones  and  brands  in  rattling  volleys  fly, 
And  all  the  rustic  arms  that  fury  can  supply : 
If  then  some  grave  and  pious  man  appear, 
They  hush  their  noise,  and  lend  a  listening  ear ; 
He  soothes  with  sober  words  their  angry  mood, 
And  quenches  their  innate  desire  of  blood. 
So,  when  the  father  of  the  flood  appears, 
And  o'er  the  seas  his  sovereign  trident  rears, 
Their  fury  falls.     He  skims  the  liquid  plains, 
High  on  his  chariot,  and  with  loosened  reins 
Majestic  moves  along,  and  awful  peace  maintains. 
The  weary  Trojans  ply  their  shattered  oars 
To  nearest  land,  and  make  the  Libyan  shores. 

Within  a  long  recess  there  lies  a  bay  : 
An  island  shades  it  from  the  rolling  sea, 
And  forms  a  port  secure  for  ships  to  ride, 
Broke  by  the  jutting  land  on  either  side  : 
In  double  streams  the  briny  waters  glide. 
Betwixt  two  rows  of  rocks,  a  sylvan  scene 
Appears  above,  and  groves  for  ever  green. 
A  grot  is  formed  beneath,  with  mossy  seats, 
To  rest  the  Nereids,  and  exclude  the  heats. 
Down  through  the  crannies  of  the  living  walls 
The  crystal  streams  descend  in  murmuring  falls. 
No  hawsers  need  to  bind  the  vessels  here, 
Nor  bearded  anchors  ;  for  no  storms  they  fear.    :  • 
Seven  ships  within  this  happy  harbor  meet,  — 
The  thin  remainders  of  the  scattered  fleet. 
The  Trojans,  worn  with  toils,  and  spent  with  woes, 
Leap  on  the  welcome  land,  and  seek  their  wished  repose. 
First,  good  Achates,  with  repeated  strokes 
Of  clashing  flints,  their  hidden  fire  provokes ; 
Short  flame  succeeds ;  a  bed  of  withered  leaves 
The  dying  sparkles  in  their  fall  receives : 
Caught  into  life,  in  fiery  fumes  they  rise, 
And,  fed  with  stronger  food,  invade  the  skies. 
The  Trojans,  dropping  wet,  or  stand  around 
The  cheerful  blaze,  or  lie  along  the  ground : 
Some  dry  their  corn  infected  with  the  brine, 
Then  grind  with  marbles,  and  prepare  to  dine. 


526  EXGLISH  LITERATURE. 

JEneas  climbs  the  mountain's  airy  brow, 
And  takes  a  prospect  of  the  seas  below,  — 
If  Capys  thence,  or  Antheus,  he  could  spy, 
Or  see'the  streamers  of  "  The  Caicus  "  fly. 
No  vessels  were  in  view ;  but  on  the  plain 
Three  beamy  stags  command  a  lordly  train 
Of  branching  heads  :  the  more  ignoble  throng 
Attend  their  stately  steps,  and  slowly  grace  along. 
He  stood ;  and,  while  secure  they  fed  below, 
He  took  the  quiver  and  the  trusty  bow 
Achates  used  to  bear  :  the  leaders  first 
He  laid  along,  and  then  the  vulgar  pierced ; 
Nor  ceased  his  arrows  till  the  shady  plain 
Seven  mighty  bodies  with  their  blood  distain. 
For  the  seven  ships  he  made  an  equal  share, 
And  to  the  port  returned  triumphant  from  the  war. 
The  jars  of  generous  wine  (Acestes*  gift 
When  his  Trinacrian  shores  the  navy  left) 
He  set  abroach,  and  for  the  feast  prepared, 
In  equal  portions  with  the  venison  shared. 
Thus,  while  he  dealt  it  round,  the  pious  chief 
With  cheerful  words  allayed  the  common  grief:  — 

"  Endure  and  conquer :  Jove  will  soon  dispose 
To  future  good  our  past  and  present  woes. 
With  me  the  rocks  of  Scylla  you  have  tried ; 
The  inhuman  Cyclops  and  his  den  defied  : 
What  greater  ills  hereafter  you  can  bear. 
Resume  your  courage,  and  dismiss  your  care. 
An  hour  will  come,  with  pleasure  to  relate 
Your  sorrows  past  as  benefits  of  Fate. 
Through  various  hazards  and  events  we  move 
To  Latium,  and  the  realms  foredoomed  by  Jove. 
Called  to  the  seat  (the  promise  of  the  skies), 
Where  Trojan  kingdoms  once  again  may  rise, 
Endure  the  hardships  of  your  present  state  ; 
Live,  and  reserve  yourselves  for  better  fate." 

These  words  he  spoke,  but  spoke  not  from  his  heart : 
His  out\vard  smiles  concealed  his  inward  smart. 
The  jolly  crew,  unmindful  of  the  past, 
The  quarry  share,  their  plenteous  dinner  haste : 
Some  strip  the  skin  ;   some  portion  out  the  spoil ; 
(The  limbs,  yet  trembling,  in  the  caldrons  boil ;) 
Some  on  the  fire  the  reeking  entrails  broil. 
Stretched  on  the  grassy  turf,  at  ease  they  dine, 
Restore  their  strength  with  meat,  and  cheer  their  souls  with  wine. 
Their  hunger  thus  appeased,  their  care  attends 
The  doubtful  fortune  of  their  absent  friends : 
Alternate  hopes  and  fears  their  minds  possess, 
Whether  to  deem  them  dead,  or  in  distress. 
Above  the  rest.  .Eneas  mourns  the  fate 
Of  brave  Orontes,  and  the  uncertain  state 
Of  Gyas,  Lycus,  and  of  Amycus  : 
The  day,  but  not  their  sorrows,  ended  thus. 


JOHN  DRYDEN.  527 

When  from  aloft  almighty  Jove  surveys 

Earth,  air,  and  shores,  and  navigable  seas, 

At  length  on  Libyan  realms  he  fixed  his  eyes  ; 

Whom,  pondering  thus  on  human  miseries, 

When  Venus  saw,  she  with  a  lowly  look, 

Not  free  from  tears,  her  heavenly  sire  bespoke  :  — 

"  O  king  of  gods  and  men,  whose  awful  hand 
Disperses  thunder  on  the  seas  and  land, 
Disposes  all  with  absolute  command  ! 
How  could  my  pious  son  thy  power  incense  ? 
Or  what,  alas  !  is  vanished  Troy's  offense  ? 
Our  hope  of  Italy  not  only  lost 
On  various  seas,  by  various  tempests  tossed, 
But  shut  from  every  shore,  and  barred  from  every  coast 
You  promised  once,  a  progeny  divine 
Of  Romans,  rising  from  the  Trojan  line, 
In  after-times  should  hold  the  world  in  awe, 
And  to  the  land  and  ocean  give  the  law. 
How  is  your  doom  reversed  which  eased  my  care  ? 
When  Troy  was  ruined  in  that  cruel  war, 
Then  fates  to  fates  I  could  oppose ;  but  now, 
When  Fortune  still  pursues  her  former  blow, 
What  can  I  hope  ?     What  worse  can  still  succeed  ? 
What  end  of  labors  has  your  will  decreed  ? 
Antenor  from  the  midst  of  Grecian  hosts 
Could  pass  secure,  and  pierce  the  Illyrian  coasts, 
Where,  rolling  down  the  steep,  Timavus  raves, 
And  through  nine  channels  disembogues  his  waves. 
At  length  he  founded  Padua's  happy  seat, 
And  gave  his  Trojans  a  secure  retreat ; 
There  fixed  their  arms,  and  there  renewed  their  name, 
And  there  in  quiet  rules,  and  crowned  with  fame  : 
But  we,  descended  from  your  sacred  line, 
Entitled  to  your  heaven  and  rites  divine, 
Are  banished  earth,  and,  for  the  wrath  of  one, 
Removed  from  Latium  and  the  promised  throne. 
Are  these  our  scepters  ?  these  our  due  rewards  ? 
And  is  it  thus  that  Jove  his  plighted  faith  regards  ?  " 

To  whom  the  father  of  immortal  race, 
Smiling  with  that  serene,  indulgent  face 
With  which  he  drives  the  clouds  and  clears  the  skies, 
First  gave  a  holy  kiss  ;  then  thus  replies :  — 

"  Daughter,  dismiss  thy  fears.     To  thy  desire 
The  fates  of  thine  are  fixed,  and  stand  entire. 
Thou  shalt  behold  thy  wished  Lavinian  walls ; 
And,  ripe  for  heaven,  when  Fate  -ZEneas  calls, 
Then  shalt  thou  bear  him  up  sublime  to  me : 
No  councils  have  reversed  my  firm  decree. 
And,  lest  new  fears  disturb  thy  happy  state, 
Know  I  have  searched  the  mystic  rolls  of  fate. 
Thy  son  (nor  is  the  appointed  season  far) 
In  Italy  shall  wage  successful  war  \ 


528  ENGLISH  LITEIIATUKE. 

Shall  tame  fierce  nations  in  the  bloody  field, 

And  sovereign  laws  impose,  and  cities  build ; 

Till,  after  every  foe  subdued,  the  Sun 

Thrice  through  the  signs  his  annual  race  shall  run : 

This  is  his  time  prefixed.     Ascanius  then, 

Now  called  liilus,  shall  begin  his  reign. 

He  thirty  rolling  years  the  crown  shall  wear, 

Then  from  Lavinium  shall  the  seat  transfer, 

And  with  hard  labor  Alba  Longa  build  : 

The  throne  with  his  succession  shall  be  filled 

Three  hundred  circuits  more ;  then  shall  be  seen 

Ilia  the  fair,  a  priestess  and  a  queen, 

Who,  full  of  Mars,  in  time,  with  kindly  throes, 

Shall  at  a  birth  two  goodly  boys  disclose. 

The  royal  babes  a  tawny  wolf  shall  drain  : 

Then  Romulus  his  grandsire's  throne  shall  gain, 

Of  martial  towers  the  founder  shall  become, 

The  people  Romans  call,  the  city  Rome. 

To  them  no  bounds  of  empire  I  assign, 

Nor  term  of  years  to  their  immortal  line. 

Even  haughty  Juno,  who,  with  endless  broils, 

Earth,  seas,  and  heaven,  and  Jove  himself,  turmoils, 

At  length  atoned,  her  friendly  power  shall  join 

To  cherish  and  advance  the  Trojan  line. 

The  subject- world  shall  Rome's  dominion  own, 

And,  prostrate,  shall  adore  the  nation  of  the  gown. 

An  age  is  ripening  in  revolving  fate 

When  Troy  shall  overturn  the  Grecian  state  ; 

And  sweet  revenge  her  conquering  sons  shall  call 

To  crush  the  people  that  conspired  her  fall. 

Then  Caesar  from  the  Julian  stock  shall  rise, 

Whose  empire  ocean,  and  whose  fame  the  skies, 

Alone  shall  bound ;  whom,  fraught  with  Eastern  spoils, 

Our  heaven,  the  just  reward  of  human  toils, 

Securely  shall  repay  with  rites  divine ; 

And  incense  shall  ascend  before  his  sacred  shrine. 

Then  dire  debate  and  impious  war  shall  cease, 

And  the  stern  age  be  softened  into  peace ; 

Then  banished  faith  shall  once  again  return, 

And  vestal  fires  in  hallowed  temples  burn ; 

And  Remus  with  Quirinus  shall  sustain 

The  righteous  laws,  and  fraud  and  force  restrain. 

Janus  himself  before  his  fane  shall  wait, 

And  keep  the  dreadful  issues  of  his  gate 

With  bolts  and  iron  bars :  within  remains 

Imprisoned  Fun',  bound  in  brazen  chains. 

High  on  a  trophy  raised,  of  useless  arms, 

He  sits,  and  threats  the  world  with  vain  alarms." 

He  said,  and  sent  Cyllenius  with  command 
To  free  the  ports,  and  ope  the  Punic  land 
To  Trojan  guests,  lest,  ignorant  of  fate, 
The  queen  might  force  them  from  her  town  and  state. 


JOHN   DRYDEN.  529 

Down  from  the  steep  of  heaven  Cyllenius  flies, 
And  cleaves  with  all  his  wings  the  yielding  skies. 
Soon  on  the  Libyan  shore  descends  the  god, 
Performs  his  message,  and  displays  his  rod : 
The  surly  murmurs  of  the  people  cease ; 
And,  as  the  Fates  required,  they  give  the  peace. 
The  queen  herself  suspends  the  rigid  laws, 
The  Trojans  pities,  and  protects  their  cause. 

Meantime  in  shades  of  night  ^JEneas  lies ; 
Care  seized  his  soul,  and  sleep  forsook  his  eyes  : 
But,  when  the  sun  restored  the  cheerful  day, 
He  rose  the  coast  and  country  to  survey, 
Anxious  and  eager  to  discover  more. 
It  looked  a  wild,  uncultivated  shore  ; 
But  whether  human  kind,  or  beasts  alone, 
Possessed  the  new-found  region,  was  unknown. 
Beneath  a  ledge  of  rocks  his  fleet  he  hides : 
Tall  trees  surround  the  mountain's  shady  sides ; 
The  bending  brow  above,  a  safe  retreat  provides. 
Armed  with  two  pointed  darts,  he  leaves  his  friends ; 
And  true  Achates  on  his  steps  attends. 
Lo,  in  the  deep  recesses  of  the  wood, 
Before  his  eyes  his  goddess-mother  stood !  — 
A  huntress  in  her  habit  and  her  mien, 
Her  dress  a  maid,  her  air  confessed  a  queen. 
Bare  were  her  knees  ;  and  knots  her  garments  bind ; 
Loose  was  her  hair,  and  wantoned  in  the  wind ; 
Her  hand  sustained  a  bow ;  her  quiver  hung  behind  : 
She  seemed  a  virgin  of  the  Spartan  blood. 
With  such  array,  Harpalice  bestrode 
Her  Thracian  courser,  and  outstripped  the  rapid  flood. 

"  Ho,  strangers !  have  you  lately  seen,"  she  said, 
"  One  of  my  sisters,  like  myself  arrayed, 
Who  crossed  the  lawn,  or  in  the  forest  strayed  ? 
A  painted  quiver  at  her  back  she  bore  ; 
Varied  with  spots,  a  lynx's  hide  she  wore ; 
And  at  full  cry  pursued  the  tusky  boar." 
Thus  Venus.     Thus  her  son  replied  again :  — 

"  None  of  your  sisters  have  we  heard  or  seen, 
O  Virgin !  or  what  other  name  you  bear 
Above  that  style,  O  more  than  mortal  fair ! 
Your  voice  and  mien  celestial  birth  betray. 
If,  as  you  seem,  the  sister  of  the  Day, 
Or  one  at  least  of  chaste  Diana's  train, 
Let  not  a  humble  suppliant  sue  in  vain  ; 
But  tell  a  stranger,  long  in  tempests  tossed, 
What  earth  we  tread,  and  who  commands  the  coast ; 
Then  on  your  name  shall  wretched  mortals  call, 
And  offered  victims  at  your  altars  fall." 

"  I  dare  not,"  she  replied,  "  assume  the  name 
Of  goddess,  or  celestial  honors  claim  ; 
34 


530  ENGLISH  LITERATURE, 

For  Tyrian  virgins  bows  and  quivers  bear, 

And  purple  buskins  o'er  their  ankles  wear. 

Knowy  gentle  youth,  in  Libyan  lands  you  are,  — 

A  people  rude  in  peace,  and  rough  in  war. 

The  rising  city  which  from  far  you  see 

Is  Carthage,  and  a  Tyrian  colony. 

Phoenician  Dido  rules  the  growing  state, 

Who  fled  from  Tyre  to  shun  a  brother's  hate  : 

Great  were  her  wrongs,  her  story  ftill  of  fate, 

Which  I  will  sum  in  short.     Sichasus,  known 

For  wealth,  and  brother  to  the  Punic  throne, 

Possessed  fair  Dido's  bed  ;  and  either  heart 

At  once  was  wounded  with  an  equal  dart. 

Her  father  gave  her,  yet  a  spotless  maid. 

Pygmalion  then  the  Tyrian  scepter  swayed, — 

One  who  contemned  divine  and  human  laws  : 

Then  strife  ensued,  and  cursed  gold  the  cause. 

The  monarch,  blinded  with  desire  of  wealth, 

With  steel  invades  his  brother's  life  by  stealth  -• 

Before  the  sacred  altar  made  him  bleed, 

And  long  from  her  concealed  the  cruel  deed. 

Some  tale,  some  new  pretense,  he  daily  coined, 

To  soothe  his  sister,  and  delude  her  mind. 

At  length,  in  dead  of  night,  the  ghost  appears 

Of  her  unhappy  lord.     The  specter  stares, 

And  with  erected  eyes  his  bloody  bosom  bares. 

The  cruel  altars  and  his  fate  he  tells, 

And  the  dire  secret  of  his  house  reveals ; 

Then  warns  the  widow  and  her  household  gods 

To  seek  a  refuge  in  remote  abodes. 

Last,  to  support  her  in  so  long  a  way, 

He  shows  her  where  his  hidden  treasure  lay. 

Admonished  thus,  and  seized  with  mortal  fright, 

The  queen  provides  companions  of  her  flight  : 

They  meet,  and  all  combine  to  leave  the  state 

Who  hate  the  tyrant,  or  who  fear  his  hate. 

They  seize  a  fleet  which  ready  rigged  they  find ; 

Nor  is  Pygmalion's  treasure  left  behind. 

The  vessels,  heavy-laden,  put  to  sea 

With  prosperous  winds  :  a  woman  leads  the.  way. 

I  know  not  if  by  stress  of  weather  driven, 

Or  was  their  fatal  course  disposed  by  Heaven. 

At  last  they  landed  where  from  far  your  eyes 

May  view  the  turrets  of  New  Carthage  rise ; 

There  bought  a  space  of  ground,  which,  Byrsa  called 

From  the  bull's-hide,  they  first  inclosed  and  walled. 

But  whence  are  you  ?  what  country  claims  your  birth  ? 

What  seek  you,  strangers,  on  the  Libyan  earth  V  " 

To  whom,  with  sorrow  streaming  from  his  eyes, 
And  deeply  sighing,  thus  her  son  replies  :  — 

"  Could  you  with  patience  hear,  or  I  relate, 
O  nymph  I  the  tedious  annals  of  our  fate,  — 


JOHN  DI;YDEN.  531 

Through  such  a  train  of  woes  if  I  should  run, 
The  day  would  sooner  than  the  tale  be  done. 
From  ancient  Troy,  by  force  expelled,  we  came, 
(If  you  by  chance  have  heard  the  Trojan  name.) 
On  various  seas,  by  various  tempests  tost, 
At  length  we  landed  on  your  Libyan  coast. 
The  good  tineas  am  I  called  ;  a  name, 
While  fortune  favored,  not  unknown  to  fame. 
My  household  gods,  companions  of  my  woes, 
With  pious  care  I  rescued  from  our  foes. 
To  fruitful  Italy  my  course  was  bent ; 
And  from  the  king  of  heaven  is  my  descent. 
With  twice  ten  sail  I  crossed  the  Phrygian  Sea : 
Fate  and  my  mother-goddess  led  my  way. 
Scarce  seven,  the  thin  remainder  of  my  fleet, 
From  storms  preserved,  within  your  harbor  meet. 
Myself  distressed,  an  exile,  and  unkno\vn, 
Debarred  from  Europe,  and  from  Asia  thrown, 
In  Libyan  deserts  wander  thus  alone." 

His  tender  parent  could  no  longer  bear, 
But,  interposing,  sought  to  soothe  his  care  :  — 

"  Whoe'er  you  are,  not  unbeloved  by  Heaven, 
Since  on  our  friendly  shore  your  ships  are  driven, 
Have  courage  :  to  the  gods  permit  the  rest, 
And  to  the  queen  expose  your  just  request. 
Now  take  this  earnest  of  success  for  more  : 
Your  scattered  fleet  is  joined  upon  the  shore ; 
The  winds  are  changed,  your  friends  from  danger  free, 
Or  I  renounce  my  skill  in  augury. 
Twelve  swans  behold  in  beauteous  order  move, 
And  stoop  with  closing  pinions  from  above, 
Whom  late  the  bird  of  Jove  had  driven  along, 
And  through  the  clouds  pursued  the  scattering  throng : 
Now,  all  united  in  a  goodly  team, 
They  skim  the  ground,  and  seek  the  quiet  stream, 
As  they,  with  joy  returning,  clap  their  wings, 
And  ride  the  circuit  of  the  skies  in  rings. 
Not  otherwise  your  ships,  and  every  friend, 
Already  hold  the  port,  or  with  swift  sails  descend. 
No  more  advice  is  needful ;  but  pursue 
The  path  before  you,  and  the  town  in  view." 

Thus  having  said,  she  turned,  and  made  appear 
Her  neck  refulgent,  and  disheveled  hair ; 
Which,  flowing  from  her  shoulders,  reached  the  ground, 
And  widely  spread  ambrosial  scents  around : 
In  length  of  train  descends  her  sweeping  gown ; 
And  by  her  graceful  walk  the  Queen  of  Love  is  known. 


532  ENGLISH  EITERATURE. 

JOHN    BUNYAK 

1628-1688. 

Author  of  the  unequaled  allegory,  "  The  Pilgrim's  Progress."     Although  the 
author  of  many  other  works,  this  alone  has  made  him  immortal. 


VALIANT'S   STORY. 

THEN  said  Great-Heart  to  Mr.  Valiant-for-Truth,  "Thou  hast 
•worthily  behaved  thyself:  let  me  see  thy  sword."  So  he  showed 
it  to  him.  When  he  had  taken  it  in  his  hand,  and  looked 
thereon  a  while,  he  said,  "  Ha  !  it  is  a  right  Jerusalem  blade." 

Valiant.  —  It  is  so.  Let  a  man  have  one  of  these  blades,  with 
a  hand  to  wield  it,  and  skill  to  use  it,  and  he  may  venture  upon 
an  angel  with  it.  He  need  not  fear  its  holding,  if  he  can  but  tell 
how  to  lay  on.  Its  edge  will  never  blunt.  It  will  cut  flesh  and 
bones,  and  soul  and  spirit,  and  all. 

Great.  —  But  you  fought  a  great  while  :  I  wonder  you  were  not 
weary. 

Valiant.  —  I  fought  till  my  sword  did  cleave  to  my  hand  ;  and 
then  they  were  joined  together  as  if  a  sword  grew  out  of  my 
arm  ;  and  when  the  blood  ran  through  my  fingers,  then  I  fought 
with  most  courage. 

Great.  —  Thou  hast  done  well :  thou  hast  resisted  unto  blood, 
striving  against  sin.  Thou  shalt  abide  by  us,  come  in  and  go 
out  with  us;  for  we  are  thy  companions.  Then  they  took  him, 
and  washed  his  wounds,  and  gave  him  of  what  they  had  to 
refresh  him ;  and  so  they  went  on  together. 

Now,  as  they  went  on,  because  Mr.  Great-Heart  was  delighted 
in  him  (for  he  loved  one  greatly  that  he  found  to  be  a  man  of 
his  hands),  and  because  there  were  in  company  they  that  were 
feeble  and  weak,  therefore  he  questioned  with  him  about  many 
things ;  as,  first,  what  counhyman  he  was. 

Valiant.  —  I  am  of  Dark-Land;  for  there  was  I  born,  and 
there  my  father  and  mother  are  still. 

"  Dark-Land,"  said  the  guide :  "  doth  not  that  lie  on  the  same 
coast  with  the  City  of  Destruction  ?  " 

Valiant.  —  Yes,  it  doth.  Now,  that  which  caused  me  to  come 
on  pilgrimage  was  this :  We  had  one  Mr.  Tell-True  come  into 
our  parts  ;  and  he  told  about  what  Christian  had  done,  that  went 
from  the  City  of  Destruction ;  namely,  how  he  had  forsaken  his 
wife  and  children,  and  had  betaken  himself  to  a  pilgrim's  life. 


JOHN  BUNYAN.  533 

It  was  also  confidently  reported  how  he  had  killed  a  serpent 
that  had  come  out  to  resist  him  in  his  journey;  and  how  he 
got  through  to  whither  he  intended.  It  was  also  told  what  wel- 
come he  had  at  all  his  Lord's  lodgings,  especially  when  he  came 
to  the  gates  of  the  Celestial  City;  "for  there,"  said  the  man,  "he 
was  received  with  sound  of  trumpet  by  a  company  of  shining 
ones."  He  told,  also,  how  all  the  bells  in  the  city  did  ring  for  joy 
at  his  reception,  and  what  golden  garments  he  was  clothed  with ; 
with  many  other  things  that  now  I  shall  forbear  to  relate.  In  a 
word,  that  man  so  told  the  story  of  Christian  and  his  travels,  that 
my  heart  fell  into  a  burning  haste  to  be  gone  after  him.  Nor 
could  father  or  mother  stay  me :  so  I  got  from  thein,  and  am 
come  thus  far  on  my  way. 

Great.  —  You  came  in  at  the  gate  ;  did  you  not  ? 

Valiant.  —  Yes,  yes !  for  the  same  man  also  told  us  that  all 
would  be  nothing  if  we  did  not  begin  to  enter  this  way  at  the 
gate.  "Look  you,"  said  the  guide  to  Christiana,  "the  pilgrimage 
of  your  husband,  and  what  he  has  gotten  thereby,  is  spread  abroad 
far  and  near." 

Valiant.  —  Why,  is  this  Christian's  wife  ? 

Great.  —  Yes,  that  it  is ;  and  these,  also,  are  his  four  sons. 

Valiant.  —  What !  and  going  on  pilgrimage  too  ? 

Great.  —  Yes,  verily,  they  are  following  after. 

Valiant.  —  It  glads  me  at  the  heart.  Good  man,  how  joyful 
will  he  be  when  he  shall  see  them  that  would  not  go  with  him, 
yet  to  enter  after  him  in  at  the  gates  into  the  Celestial  City ! 

Great.  —  Without  doubt  it  will  be  a  comfort  to  him  ;  for,  next 
to  the  joy  of  seeing  himself  there,  it  will  be  a  joy  to  meet  there 
his  wife  and  children. 

Valiant.  —  But,  now  you  are  upon  that,  pray  let  me  see  your 
opinion  about  it.  Some  make  a  question  whether  we  shall  know 
one  another  when  we  are  there. 

'Great. — Do  you  think  they  shall  know  themselves  then,  or 
that  they  shall  rejoice  to  see  themselves  in  that  bliss  ?  and,  if 
they  think  they  shall  know  and  do  this,  why  not  know  others, 
and  rejoice  in  their  welfare  also  ?  Again :  since  relations  are  our 
second  self,  though  that  state  will  be  dissolved  there,  yet  why 
may  it  not  be  rationally  concluded  that  we  shall  be  more  glad  to 
see  them  there  than  to  see  they  are  wanting? 

Valiant.  —  Well,  I  perceive  whereabouts  you  are  as  to  this. 
Have  you  any  more  things  to  ask  me  about  'my  beginning  to 
come  on  pilgrimage  ? 

Great.  —  Yes%:  were  your  father  and  mother  willing  that  you 
should  become  a  pilgrim  ? 

Valiant.  —  Oh,  no  !  they  used  all  means  imaginable  to  per- 
suade me  to  stay  at  home. 


534  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Great.  —  Why,  what  could  they  say  against  it  ? 

Valiant.  —  They  said  it  was  an"  idle  life  ;  and,  if  I  myself  were 
not  inclined  to. sloth  and  laziness,  I  would  never  countenance  a 
pilgrim's  condition. 

Great.  —  And  what  did  they  say  else? 

Valiant.  —  Why,  they  told  me  that  it  was  a  dangerous  way : 
yea,  the  most  dangerous  way  in  the  world,  say  they,  is  that 
which  the  pilgrims  go. 

G-reat.  —  Did  they  show  you  wherein  this  way  is  so  dangerous  ? 

Valiant.  —  Yes ;  and  that  in  many  particulars. 

Great.  —  Name  some  of  them. 

Valiant.  —  They  told  me  of  the  Slough  of  Despond,  where 
Christian  was  well-nigh  smothered.  They  told  me  that  there 
were  archers  standing  ready  in  Beelzebub  Castle  to  shoot  them 
who  should  knock  at  the  Wicket-Gate  for  entrance.  They  told 
me  also  of  the  wood  and  dark  mountains  ;  of  the  Hill  Difficulty ; 
of  the  lions ;  and  also  of  the  three  giants,  —  Bloody-Man,  Maul, 
and  Slay-Good.  They  said,  moreover,  that  there  was  a  foul  fiend 
haunted  the  Valley  of  Humiliation;  and  that  Christian  was  by 
him  almost  bereft  of  life.  "  Besides,"  said  they,  "you  must  go  over 
the  Valley  of  the  Shadow  of  Death,  where  the  hobgoblins  are ; 
where  the  light  is  darkness ;  where  the  way  is  full  of  snares,  pits, 
traps,  and  gins."  They  told  me  also  of  Giant  Despair,  of  Doubt- 
ing Castle,  and  of  the  ruin  that  the  pilgrims  met  with  there. 
Further,  they  said  I  must  go  over  the  Enchanted  Ground,  which 
was  dangerous;  and  that,  after  all  this,  I  should  find  a  river, 
over  which  there  was  no  bridge ;  and  that  that  river  did  lie 
betwixt  me  and  the  Celestial  Country. 

Great.  —  And  this  was  all  ? 

Valiant.  —  No.  They  also  told  me  that  this  way  was  full  of 
deceivers,  and  of  persons  that  lay  in  wait  there  to  turn  good  men 
out  of  the  path. 

Great.  —  But  how  did  they  make  that  out  ? 

Valiant.  —  They  told  me  that  Mr.  Worldly -Wiseman  did  lie 
there  in  wait  to  deceive.  They  said,  also,  that  there  were  For- 
mality and  Hypocrisy  continually  on  the  road.  They  said,  also, 
that  By- Ends,  Talkative,  or  Demas,  would  go  near  to  gather  me 
up;  that  the  Flatterer  would  catch  me  in  his  net;  or  that,  with 
green-headed  Ignorance,  I  would  presume  to  go  on  to  the  gate, 
from  whence  he  was  sent  back  to  the  hole  that  was  in  the  side 
of  the  hill,  and  made  to  go  the  by-way  to  hell. 

Great.  —  I  promise  you  this  was  enough  to  discourage  you ; 
but  did  they  make  an  end  there  ? 

Valiant.  —  No:  stay.  They  told  me,  also,  of  many  that  had 
tried  that  way  of  old,  and  that  had  gone  a  great  way  therein  to 
see  if  they  could  find  something  of  the  glory  there  that  so  many 


JOHN  BtTNYAK  .  535 

had  so  much  talked  of  from  time  to  time ;  and  how  they  came 
back  again,  and  befooled  themselves  for  setting  afoot  out  of  doors 
in  that  path,  to  the  satisfaction  of  all  the  country.  And  they 
named  several  that  did  so,  as  Obstinate  and  Pliable,  Mistrust 
and  Timorous,  Turn- Away  and  old  Atheist,  with  several  more, 
who,  they  said,  had  some  of  them  gone  far  to  see  what  they  could 
find;  but  not  one  of  them  had  found  so  much  advantage  by  going 
as  amounted  to  the  weight  of  a  feather. 

Great.  —  Said  they  any  thing  more  to  discourage  you  ? 

Valiant.  —  Yes.  They  told  me  of  one  Mr.  Fearing,  who  was 
a  pilgrim ;  and  how  he  found  his  way  so  solitary,  that  he  never 
had  a  comfortable  hour  therein ;  also  that  Mr.  Despondency  had 
like  to  have  been  starved  therein ;  yea,  and  also  (which  I  had 
almost  forgot)  that  Christian  himself,  about  whom  there  has 
been  such  a  noise  after  all  his  ventures  for  a  celestial  crown,  was 
certainly  drowned  in  the  Black  River,  and  never  went  a  foot 
farther.  However,  it  was  smothered  up. 

Great. — And  did  none  of  these  things  discourage  you? 

Valiant.  —  No:  they  seemed  but  as  so  many  nothings  to  me. 

Great.  —  How  came  that  about  ? 

Valiant.  —  Why,  I  still  believed  what  Mr.  Tell-Truth  had  said; 
and  that  carried  me  beyond  them  all. 

Great.  —  Then  this  was  your  victory,  —  even  your  faith  ? 

Valiant.  —  It  was  so.  I  believed,  and  therefore  came  out,  got 
into  the  way,  fought  all  that  set  themselves  against  me,  and,  by 
believing,  am  come  to  this  place. 

By  this  time  they  were  got  to  the  Enchanted  Ground,  where 
the  air  naturally  tended  to  make  one  drowsy.  And  that  place 
was  all  grown  over  with  briers  and  thorns,  excepting  here  and 
there  where  was  an  enchanted  arbor,  upon  which  if  a  man  sits, 
or  in  which  if  a  man  sleeps,  it  is  a  question,  some  say,  whether 
ever  he  shall  rise  or  wake  again  in  this  world.  Over  this 
forest,  therefore,  they  went,  both  one  and  another :  and  Mr. 
Great-Heart  went  before,  for  that  he  was  the  guide  ;  and  Mr. 
Valiant-for-Truth  came  behind,  being  rear-guard,  for  fear  lest, 
peradventure,  some  fiend  or  dragon  or  giant  or  thief  should  fall 
upon  their  rear,  and  so  do  mischief.  They  went  on  here,  each 
man  with  his  sword  drawn  in  his  hand;  for  they  knew  it  was  a 
dangerous  place.  Also  they  cheered  up  one  another  as  well  as 
they  could.  Feeble-Mind,  Mr.  Great-Heart  commanded,  should 
come  up  after  him;  and  Mr.  Despondency  was  under  the  eye  of 
Mr.  Valiant. 

Now,  they  had  not  gone  far  but  a  great  mist  and  darkness  fell 
upon  them  all,  so  that  they  could  scarce,  for  a  great  while,  see 
the  one  the  other.  Wherefore  they  were  forced,  for  some  time, 
to  feel  one  for  another  by  words ;  for  they  walked  not  by  sight. 


536  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

But  any  one  must  think  that  here  was  but  sorry  going  for  the 
best  of  them  all;  but  how  much  worse  for  the  women  and  chil- 
dren, who  both  of  feet  and  heart*  were  but  tender !  Yet  so  it 
was,  that  through  the  encouraging  words  of  him  that  led  in  the 
front,  and  of  him  that  brought  them  up  behind,  they  made  a 
pretty  good  shift  to  wag  along.  The  way  also  here  was  very 
wearisome,  through  dirt  and  slabbiness.  Nor  was  there,  on  all 
this  ground,  so  much  as  one  inn  or  victualing-house  wherein  to 
refresh  the  feeble  sort.  Here,  therefore,  was  grunting  and  puffing 
and  sighing ;  while  one  tuinbleth  over  a  bush,  another  sticks  fast 
in  the  dirt ;  and  the  children,  some  of  them,  lost  their  shoes  in 
the  mire  :  while  one  cries  out,  "I  am  down  !"  and  another,  "Ho  ! 
where  are  you  ?  "  and  a  third,  "  The  bushes  hare  got  such  fast 
hold  on  me,  I  think  I  can  not  get  away  from  them ! " 

Then  they  came  at  an  arbor,  warm,  and  promising  much  refresh- 
ing to  the  pilgrims ;  for  it  was  finely  wrought  above-head,  beauti- 
fied with  greens,  furnished  with  benches  and  settles.  It  also  had 
in  it  a  soft  couch,  whereon  the  weary  might  lean.  This  you  must 
think,  all  things  considered,  was  tempting;  for  the  pilgrims  al- 
ready began  to  be  foiled  with  the  badness  of  the  way :  but  there 
wa.s  not  one  of  them  that  made  so  much  as  a  motion  to  stop  there. 
Yea,  for  aught  I  could  perceive,  they  continually  gave  so  good 
heed  to  the  advice  of  their  guide,  and  he  did  so  faithfully  tell 
them  of  dangers,  and  of  the  nature  of  dangers  when  they  were  at 
them,  that  usually,  when  they  were  nearest  to  them,  they  did  most 
pluck  up  their  spirits,  and  hearten  one  another  to  deny  the  flesh. 
This  arbor  was  called  the  Slothful's  Friend,  on  purpose  to  allure, 
if  it  might  be,  some  of  the  pilgrims  there  to  take  up  their  rest 
when  weary.  I  saw  them  in  my  dream,  that  they  went  on  in  this 
their  solitary  ground  till  they  came  to  a  place  at  which  a  man  is 
apt  to  lose  his  way.  Now,  though  when  it  was  light  their  guide 
could  well  enough  tell  how  to  miss  those  ways  that  led  wrong,  yet 
in  the  dark  he  was  put  to  a  stand.  But  he  had  in  his  pocket  a 
map  of  all  ways  leading  to  or  from  the  Celestial  City :  wherefore 
he  struck  a  light  (for  he  never  goes  without  his  tinder-box  also), 
and  takes  a  view  of  his  book  or  map,  which  bids  him  to  be  careful 
in  that  place  to  turn  to  the  right  hand.  And,  had  he  not  been 
careful  here  to  look  in  his  map,  they  had  all,  in  probability,  been 
smothered  in  the  mud ;  for  just  a  little  before  them,  and  that  at 
the  end  of  the  cleanest  way  too,  was  a  pit,  none  knows  how  deep, 
full  of  nothing  but  mud,  there  made  on  purpose  to  destroy  the 
pilgrims  in. 

Then  thought  I  with  myself,  "  Who  that  goeth  on  pilgrimage  but 
would  have  one  of  these  maps  about  him.  that  he  may  look  when 
he  is  at  a  stand  which  is  the  way  he  must  take  ?  " 

Then  they  went  on  in  this  Enchanted  Ground  till  they  came  to 


JOHN  BUNYAN.  537 

where  there  was  another  arbor;  and  it  was  built  by  the  highway- 
side.  And  in  that  arbor  there  lay  two  men,  whose  names  were 
Heedless  and  Too-Bold.  These  two  went  thus  far  on  pilgrimage, 
but  here,  being  wearied  with  their  journey,  sat  down  to  rest  them- 
selves, and  so  fell  fast  asleep.  When  the  pilgrims  saw  them,  they 
stood  still,  and  shook  their  heads;  for  they  knew  that  the  sleepers 
were  in  a  pitiful  case.  Then  they  consulted  what  to  do,  —  whether 
to  go  on  and  leave  them  in  their  sleep ;  or  to  step  to  them,  and  try 
to  awake  them.  So  they  concluded  to  go  to  them,  and  try  to  awake 
them,  —  that  is,  if  they  could  ;  but  with  this  caution,  —  namely, 
to  take  heed  that  they  themselves  did  not  sit  down,  nor  embrace 
the  offered  benefit  of  that  arbor. 

So  they  went  in  and  spake  to  the  men,  and  called  each  by  his 
name  (for  the  guide,  it  seems,  did  know  them) ;  but  there  was  no 
voice  nor  answer.  Then  the  guide  did  shake  them,  and  do  what 
he  could  to  disturb  them.  Then  said  one  of  them,  "I  will  pay  you 
when  I  take  my  money."  At  which  the  guide  shook  his  head. 
"I  will  fight  so  long  as  I  can  hold  my  sword  in  my  hand,"  said 
the  other.  At  that  one  of  the  children  laughed.  Then  said 
Christiana,  "What  is  the  meaning  of  this?"  The  guide  said, 
"They  talk  in  their  sleep.  If  you  strike  them,  beat  them,  or 
whatever  else  you  do  to  them,  they  will  answer  you  after  this 
fashion ;  or  as  one  of  them  said  in  old  time,  when  the  waves  of 
the  sea  did  beat  upon  him,  and  he  slept  as  one  upon  the  mast  of  a 
ship,  'When  I  awake,  I  will  seek  it  again.'  You  know,  when 
men  talk  in  their  sleep,  they  say  any  thing ;  but  their  words  are 
not  governed  either  by  faith  or  reason.  There  is  an  incoherency 
in  their  words  now,  as  there  was  before  betwixt  their  going  on 
pilgrimage  and  sitting  down  here.  This,  then,  is  the  mischief  of 
it:  When  heedless  ones  go  on  pilgrimage,  'tis  twenty  to  one  but 
they  are  served  thus;  for  this  Enchanted  Ground  is  one  of  the 
last  refuges  that  the  enemy  to  pilgrims  has :  wherefore  it  is,  as 
you  see,  placed  almost  at  the  end  of  the  way,  and  so  it  standeth 
against  us  with  the  more  advantage.  For  '  when,'  thinks  the  ene- 
my, '  will  these  fools  be  so  desirous  to  sit  down  as  when  they  are 
weary?  and  when  so  like  to  be  weary  as  when  almost  at  their 
journey's  end  ?'  Therefore  it  is,  I  saj7,  that  the  Enchanted  Ground 
is  placed  so  nigh  to  the  land  Beulah,  and  so  near  the  end  of 
their  race.  Wherefore  let  pilgrims  look  to  themselves,  lest  it 
happen  to  them  as  it  has  done  to  these,  that,  as  you  see,  are  fallen 
asleep,  and  none  can  awake  them." 

Then  the  pilgrims  desired,  with  trembling,  to  go  forward:  only 
they  prayed  their  guide  to  strike  a  light,  that  they  might  go  the 
rest  of  their  way  by  the  help  of  the  light  of  a  lantern.  So  he 
struck  a  light;  and  they  went, by  the  help  of  that,  through  the  rest 
of  this  way,  though  the  darkness  was  very  great.  But  the  chil- 


538  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

dren  began  to  be  sorely  weary;  and  they  cried  out  unto  Him  that 
loveth  pilgrims  to  make  their  way  more  comfortable.  So  by  that 
they  had  gone  a  little  farther,  a  wind  arose,  that  drove  away  the 
fog  :  so  the  air  became  more  clear.  Yet  they  were  not  off  (by  much) 
of  the  Enchanted  Ground:  only  now  they  could  see  one  another 
better,  and  the  way  wherein  they  should  walk.  Now,  when  they 
were  almost  at  the  end  of  this  ground,  they  perceived  that  a  little 
before  them  was  a  solemn  noise,  as  of  one  that  was  much  con- 
cerned. So  they  went  on,  and  looked  before  them  ;  and,  behold ! 
they  saw,  as  they  thought,  a  man  upon  his  knees,  with  hands  and 
eyes  lifted  up,  and  speaking,  as  they  thought,  earnestly  to  one  that 
was  above.  They  drew  nigh,  but  could  not  tell  what  he  said :  so 
they  went  softly  till  he  had  done.  When  he  had  done,  he  got  up, 
and  began  to  run  towards  the  Celestial  City.  Then  Mr.  Great- 
Heart  called  after  him,  saying,  "  Soho,  friend !  let  us  have  your 
company,  if  you  go,  as  I  suppose  you  do,  to  the  Celestial  City." 
So  the  man  stopped,  and  they  came  up  to  him.  But,  as  soon  as 
Mr.  Honest  saw  him,  he  said,  "  I  know  this  man."  Then  said 
Mr.  Valiant-for-Truth,  "Prithee,  who  is  it?"  —  "It  is  one,"  said 
he,  "  that  comes  from  whereabout  I  dwelt.  His  name  is  Stand- 
fast :  he  is  certainly  a  right  good  pilgrim." 

So  thev  came  up  one  to  another.  And  presently  Standfast  said 
to  Old  Honest,  "Ho,  Father  Honest !  are  you  there  ?"—  "  Ay,"  said 
he,  "  that  I  am,  as  sure  as  you  are  there."  —  "  Right  glad  am  I," 
said  Mr.  Standfast,  "that  I  have  found  you  on  this  road."  —  "And 
as  glad  am  I,"  said  the  other,  "  that  I  espied  you  on  your  knees." 
Then  Mr.  Standfast  blushed,  and  said,  "But  why?  did  you  see 
me?"  — "  Yes,  that  I  did,"  quoth  the  other;  "and  with  my  heart 
was  glad  at  the  sight."  —  "Why,  what  did  you  think?"  said 
Standfast.  "  Think  !"  said  Old  Honest :  "  what  should  I  think  ? 
I  thought  we  had  an  honest  man  upon  the  road,  and  therefore 
should  have  his  company  by  and  by."  —  "If  you  thought  not 
amiss,"  said  Standfast,  "  how  happy  am  I !  But,  if  I  be  not  as  I 
should,  'tis  I  alone  must  bear  it."  —  "  That  is  true,"  said  the  other: 
"but  your  fear  doth  further  confirm  me  that  things  are  right  be- 
twixt the  Prince  of  pilgrims  and  your  soul ;  for  he  saith,  'Blessed 
is  the  man  that  feareth  always/  " 

Valiant.  —  Well.  But,  brother,  I  pray  thee  tell  us  what  was  it 
that  was  the  cause  of  thy  being  upon  thy  knees  even  now  ?  Was 
it  for  that  some  special  mercy  laid  obligations  upon  thee,  or 
how? 

Stand.  —  Why,  we  are,  as  you  see,  upon  the  Eiu-lmnted  Ground; 
and,  as  I  was  coming  along,  I  was  musing  with  myself  of  what  a 
dangerous  nature  the  road  in  this  place  was,  and  how  many  that 
had  come  even  this  far  on  pilgrimage  had  here  been  stopped  and 
been  destroyed.  I  thought,  also,  of  the  manner  of  the  death  with 


JOHN  BUNYAN.  539 

which  this  place  destroy eth  men.  Those  that  die  here  die  of  no  vio- 
lent distemper.  The  death  which  such  die  is  not  grievous  to  them  : 
for  he  that  goeth  away  in  a  sleep  begins  that  journey  with  desire 
and  pleasure  ;  yea,  such  acquiesce  in  the  will  of  that  disease. 

Then  Mr.  Honest,  interrupting  him,  said,  "Did  you  see  the  two 
men  asleep  in  the  arbor?" 

Stand.  —  Ay,  ay!  I  saw  Heedless  and  Too-Bold  there;  and, 
for  aught  I  know,  there  they  will  lie  till  they  rot.  But  let  me  go 
on  with  my  talo.  As  I  was  thus  musing,  as  I  said,  there  was  one 
in  very  pleasant  attire,  but  old,  who  presented  herself  to  me, 
and  offered  me  three  things;  to  wit,  her  body,  her  purse,  and  her 
bed.  Now,  the  truth  is,  I  was  both  weary  and  sleepy :  I  am  also 
as  poor  as  an  owlet;  and  that,  perhaps,  the  witch  knew.  Well,  I 
repulsed  her  once  and  again ;  but  she  put  by  my  repulses,  and 
smiled.  Then  I  began  to  be  angry;  but  she  mattered  that  nothing 
at  all.  Then  she  made  offers  again,  and  said,  if  I  would  be  ruled 
by  her,  she  would  make  me  great  and  happy.  "  For,"  said  she,  "  I 
am  the  mistress  of  the  world,  and  men  are  made  happy  by  me." 
Then  I  asked  her  name,  and  she  told  me  it  was  Madam  Bubble. 
This  set  me  farther  from  her;  Jmt  she  still  followed  me  with  en- 
ticements. Then  I  betook  me,  a.s  you  saw,  to  my  knees ;  and 
with  hands  lifted  up,  and  cries,  I  prayed  to  Him  tliat  had  said 
lie  would  help.  So,  just  as  you  came  up,  the  gentlewoman  went 
her  way.  Then  I  continued  to  give  thanks  for  this  my  great  de- 
liverance ;  for  I  verily  believe  she  intended  no  good,  but  rather 
sought  to  make  stop  of  me  in  my  journey. 

Hon.  —  Without  doubt,  her  designs  were  bad.  But  stay:  nq\v 
you  talk  of  her,  methinks  I  either  have  seen  her,  or  have  re.a^l 
some  story  of  her. 

Stand.  —  Perhaps  you  have  done  both. 

Hon.  —  Madam  Bubble  !  Is  she  not  a  tall,  comely  dame,  sor^e- 
thing  of  a  swarthy  complexion  ? 

Stand.  —  Right !  you  hit  it:  she  is  just  such  a  one. 

Hon.  —  Doth  she  not  speak  very  smoothly,  and  give  yo^  a 
smile  at  the  end  of  a  sentence  ? 

Stand.  —  You  fall  right  upon  it  again;  for  these  are  her  very 
actions. 

Hon.  —  Doth  she  not  wear  a  great  purse  by  her  side  ?  and  is 
not  her  hand  often  in  it,  fingering  her  money,  as  if  that  was  her 
heart's  delight  ? 

Stand.  —  'Tis  just  so.  Had  she  stood  by  all  this  while,  you 
could  not  more  amply  have  set  her  forth  before  me,  nor  have  bet- 
ter described  her  features. 

Hon.  —  Then  he  that  drew  her  picture  was  a  good  limner,  and 
he  that  wrote  of  her  said  true. 

t.  —  This  woman  is  a  witch;  and  it  is  by  virtue  of  her  sor? 


540  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

ceries  that  this  ground  is  enchanted.  Whoever  doth  lay  his  head 
down  in  her  lap  had  as  good  lay  it  down  on  that  block  over  which 
the  ax  doth  hung ;  and  whoever  lay  their  eyes  upon  her  beauty 
are  counted  the  enemies  of  God.  This  is  she  that  maintained!  in 
their  splendor  all  those  that  are  the  enemies  of  pilgrims;  yea, 
this  is  she  that  hath  bought  off  many  a  man  from  a  pilgrim's  life. 
She  is  a  great  gossiper :  she  is  always,  both  she  and  her  daugh- 
ters, at  one  pilgrim's  heels  or  another,  now  commending,  and  then 
preferring,  the  excellences  of  this  life.  She  is  a  great,  bold,  and 
impudent  slut :  she  will  talk  with  any  man.  She  always  laugh- 
eth  poor  pilgrims  to  scorn,  but  highly  commends  the  rich.  If 
there  be  one  cunning  to  get  money  in  a  place,  she  will  speak  well 
of  him  from  house  to  house.  She  loveth  banqueting  and  feasting 
mainly  well :  she  is  always  at  one  full  table  or  another.  She  has 
given  it  out  in  some  places  that  she  is  a  goddess ;  and  therefore 
§ome  do  worship  her.  She  has  her  time  and  open  places  of  cheat- 
ing; and  she  will  say,  and  avow  it.  that  none  can  show  a  good 
comparable  to  hers.  She  promiseth  to  dwell  with  children's  chil- 
dren if  they  will  but  love  her  and  make  much  of  her.  She  will 
cast  out  of  her  purse  gold  like  dust  in  some  places  and  to  some 
persons.  She  loves  to  be  sought  after,  spoken  well  of,  and  to  lie 
in  the  bosoms  of  men.  She  is  never  weary  of  commending  her 
commodities;  and  she  loves  them  most  that  think  best  of  her.  She 
will  promise  to  some  crowns  and  kingdoms  if  they  will  but  take 
her  advice  ;  yet  many  hath  she  brought  to  the  halter,  and  ten 
thousand  times  more  to  hell. 

"  Oh,"  said  Standfast,  "  what  a  mercy  is  it  that  I  did  resist 
her!  for  whither  might  she  have  drawn  me?" 

Great. — Whither?  nay,  none  but  God  knows  whither.  But 
in  general,  to  be  sure,  she  would  have  drawn  thee  into  many 
foolish  and  hurtful  lusts,  which  drown  men  in  destruction  ar.d 
perdition.  'Twas  she  that  set  Absalom  against  his  father,  and 
Jeroboam  against  his  master.  'Twas  she  that  persuaded  Judas 
to  sell  his  Lord,  and  that  prevailed  with  Demas  to  forsake  the 
godly  pilgrim's  life.  None  can  tell  of  the  mischief  that  she  doth. 
She  makes  yariance  betwixt  rulers  and  subjects,  betwixt  parents 
and  children,  betwixt  neighbor  and  neighbor,  betwixt  a  man  and 
his  wife,  betwixt  a  man  and  himself,  betwixt  the  flesh  and  the 
spirit.  Wherefore,  good  Mr.  Standfast,  be  as  your  name  is ;  and, 
when  you  have  done  all,  stand. 

At  this  discourse,  there  was  among  the  pilgrims  a  mixture  of 
joy  and  trembling;  but  at  length  they  broke  out  and  sang. 

After  this,  I  beheld  until  they  were  come  into  the  land  of 
Beulah,  where  the  sun  shineth  night  and  day.  Here,  because  they 
were  wear}-,  they  betook  themselves  a  while  to  rest.  And  because 
this  country  was  common  for  pilgrims,  and  because  the  orchards 


.       JOHN   BUN  VAN.  041 

and  vineyards  that  were  here  belonged  to  the  King  of  the  Celes- 
tial Country,  therefore  they  were  licensed  to  make  bold  with  any 
of  his  things.  But  a  little  while  soon  refreshed  them  here  :  for 
the  bells  did  so  ring,  and  the  trumpets  continually  sound  so  melo- 
diously, that  they  could  not  sleep  ;  and  yet  they  received  as  much 
refreshing  as  if  they  slept  their  sleep  never  so  soundly.  Here, 
also,  all  the  noise  of  them  that  walked  the  streets  was,  "  More 
pilgrims  are  come  to  town  !  "  And  another  would  answer,  saying, 
"  And  so  many  went  over  the  water,  and  were  let  in  at  the  golden 
gates  to-day ! "  They  would  cry  again,  "  There  is  now  a  legion  of 
shining  ones  just  come  to  town,  by  which  we  know  that  there  are 
more  pilgrims  upon  the  road  ;  for  here  they  come  to  wait  for  them, 
and  to  comfort  them  after  all  their  sorrow."  Then  the  pilgrims  got 
up,  and  walked  to  and  fro ;  but  how  were  their  ears  now  filled 
with  heavenly  noises,  and  their  eyes  delighted  with  celestial 
visions!  In  this  land  they  heard  nothing,  saw  nothing,  frit 
nothing,  smelt  nothing,  tasted  nothing,  that  was  offensive  to  their 
stomach  or  mind :  only,  when  they  tasted  of  the  water  of  the  river 
over  which  they  were  to  go,  they  thought  that  it  tasted  a  little 
bitterish  to  the  palate;  but  it  proved  sweet  when  it  was  down.  In 
this  place  there  was  a  record  kept  of  the  names  of  them  that  had 
been  pilgrims  of  old,  and  a  history  of  all  the  famous  acts  that 
they  had  done.  It  was  here  also  much  discoursed  how  the  river 
to  some  had  had  its  flowings,  and  what  ebbings  it  has  had  while 
others  have  gone  over.  It  has  been  in  a  manner  dry  for  some, 
while  it  has  overflowed  its  banks  for  others.  In  this  place  the 
children  of  the  town  would  go  into  the  King's  gardens  and 
gather  nosegays  for  the  pilgrims,  and  bring  them  to  them  with 
much  affection.  Here,  also,  grew  camphires,  with  spikenard,  and 
saffron,  calamus,  and  cinnamon,  with  all  the  trees  of  frankincense, 
myrrh,  and  aloes,  with  all  chief  spices.  With  these  the  pilgrims' 
chambers  were  perfumed  while  they  staid  here  ;  and  with  these 
were  their  bodies  anointed  to  prepare  them  to  go  over  the  river 
when  the  time  appointed  was  come. 

Now,  while  they  lay  here,  and  waited  for  the  good  hour,  there 
was  a  noise  in  the  town  that  there  was  a  post  come  from  the 
Celestial  City,  with  matter  of  great  importance  to  one  Christiana, 
the  wife  of  Christian  the  pilgrim.  So  inquiry  was  made  for  her; 
and  the  house  was  found  out  where  she  was.  So  the  post  present- 
ed her  with  a  letter.  The  contents  were,  "  Hail,  good  woman  !  I 
bring  thee  tidings  that  the  Master  calleth  for  thee,  and  expecteth 
that  thou  shouldst  stand  in  his  presence,  in  clothes  of  immortality, 
within  these  ten  days."  When  he  had  read  this  letter  to  her,  he 
gave  her  therewith  a  sure  token  that  he  was  a  true  messenger,  and 
was  come  to  bid  her  to  make  haste  to  be  gone.  The  token  was 
an  arrow,  with  a  point  sharpened  with  love,  let  easily  into  her 


542  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

heart,  which  by  degrees  wrought  so  effectually  with  her,  that  at 
the  time  appointed  she  must  be  gone. 

When  Christiana  saw  that  her  time  was  come,  and  that  she  was 
the  first  of  this  company  that  was  to  go  over,  she  called  for  Mr. 
Great-Heart,  her  guide,  and  told  him  how  matters  were.  So  he 
told  her  he  was  heartily  glad  of  the  news,  and  could  have  been 
glad  had  the  post  come  for  him.  Then  she  bid  him  that  he  should 
give  advice  how  all  things  should  be  prepared  for  her  journey. 
So  he  told  her,  saying,  "  Thus  and  thus  it  must  be ;  and  we  that 
survive  will  accompany  you  to  the  rjver-side."  Then  she  called 
for  her  children,  and  gave  them  her  blessing,  and  told  them  that 
she  had  read  with  comfort  the  mark  that  was  set  in  their  fore- 
heads, and  was  glad  to  see  them  with  her  there,  and  that  they 
had  kept  their  garments  so  white.  Lastly,  she  bequeathed  to  the 
poor  that  little  she  had,  and  commanded  her  sons  and  daughters 
to  be  ready  against  the  messenger  should  come  for  them.  "When 
she  had  spoken  these  words  to  her  guide  and  to  her  children,  she 
called  for  Mr.  Valiant-for-Truth,  and  said  unto  him,  "  Sir,  3-011 
have  in  all  places  showed  yourself  true-hearted :  be  faithful  unto 
death,  and  my  King  will  give  you  a  crown  of  life. 

"  I  would  also  entreat  you  to  have  an  eye  to  my  children  ;  and.  if 
at  any  time  you  see  them  faint,  speak  comfortably  to  them.  For 
my  daughters,  my  sons'  wives,  they  have  been  faithful ;  and  the  ful- 
filling of  the  promise  upon  them  will  be  their  end."  But  she  gave 
Mr.  Standfast  a  ring.  Then  she  called  for  old  Mr.  Honest,  and 
said  of  him,  "Behold  an  Israelite  indeed,  in  whom  there  is  no 
guile!"  Then  said  he,  "I  wish  you  a  fair  day  when  you  set  out  for 
Mount  Sion,  and  shall  be  glad  to  see  that  you  go  over  the  river 
dry-shod."  But  she  answered,  "Come  wet,  come  dry,  I  long  to  be 
gone  ;  for,  however  the  weather  is  in  my  journey,  I  shall  have  time 
enough  when  I  come  there  to  sit  down  and  rest  me  and  dry  me." 
Then  came  in  that  good  man,  Mr.  Ready-to-Halt,  to  see  her:  so 
she  said  to  him,  "Thy  travel,  hitherto,  has  been  with  difficulty; 
but  that  will  make  thy  rest  the  sweeter.  But  watch  and  bo 
ready;  for,  at  an  hour  when  ye  think  not,  the  messenger  may 
come."  After  him  came  Mr.  Despondency,  and  his  daughter  Miieli- 
Afraid ;  to  whom  she  said,  "  You  ought  with  thankfulness  for  ever 
to  remember  your  deliverance  from  the  hands  of  Giant  Despair, 
and  out  of  Doubting  Castle.  The  effect  of  that  mercy  is,  that 
you  are  brought  with  safety  hither.  Be  ye  watchful,  and  cast 
away  fear:  be  sober,  and  hope  to  >the  end."  Then  she  said  to 
Mr.  Feeble-Mind,  "  Thou  wast  delivered  from  the  mouth  of  Giant 
Slay-Good,  that  thou  mightest  live  in  the  lip:ht  of  the  living,  and 
see  thy  King  with  comfort.  Only  I  advise  thee  to  repent  of  thine 
aptness  to  fear,  and  doubt  of  his  goodness,  before  he  sends  for 
thee,  lest  thou  shouldst,  when  he  comes,  be  forced  to  stand 
before  him  for  that  fault  with  blushing." 


SAMUEL  BUTLER.  543 

i 

Now  the  day  drew  on  that  Christiana  must  be  gone.  So  the 
road  was  full  of  people  to  see  her  take  her  journey ;  but,  behold ! 
all  the  banks  beyond  the  river  were  full  of  horses  and  chariots, 
which  were  come  down  from  above  to  accompany  her  to  the  city 
gate.  So  she  came  forth,  and  entered  the  river,  with  a  beckon  of 
farewell  to  those  that  followed  her.  The  last  words  that  she  was 
heard  to  say  were,  "  I  come,  Lord,  to  be  with  thee  and  bless 
thee!"  So  her  children  and  friends  returned  to  their  place;  for 
those  that  waited  for  Christiana  had  carried  her  out  of  their  sight. 
So  she  went  and  called,  and  entered  in  at  the  gate  with  all  the 
ceremonies  of  joy  that  her  husband  Christian  had  entered  with 
before  her.  At  her  departure,  the  children  wept ;  but  Mr.  Great- 
Heart  and  Mr.  Valiant  played  upon  the  well-tuned  cymbal  and 
harp  for  joy:  so  all  departed  to  their  respective  places.  In 
process  of  time,  there  came  a  post  to  the  town  again;  and  his 
business  was  with  Mr.  Ready-to-Halt.  So  he  inquired  him  out,  and 
said,  "I  am  come  from  Him  whom  thou  hast  loved  and  followed, 
though  upon  crutches;  and  my  message  is  to  tell  thee  that  he  ex- 
pects thee  at  his  table  to  sup  with  him  in  his  kingdom  the  next 
day  after  Easter :  wherefore  prepare  thyself  for  this  journey. 
Then  he  also  gave  him  a  token  that  he  was  a  true  messenger; 
saying,  "I  have  broken  thy  golden  bowl,  and  loosed  thy  silver 
cord." 


SAMUEL    BUTLER 

1612-1680. 

The  celebrated  author  of  "  Hudibras,"  a  witty  burlesque  of  the  manners  of  the 
Puritans.  "What  Shakspeare  is  among  English  dramatists,  Milton  among  English 
epic  poets,  Bunyan  among  English  allegorists,  Butler  is  among  the  writers  of 
English  burlesque, — prince  and  paramount." 


DESCRIPTION  OF  HUDIBRAS. 

WHEN  civil  dudgeon  first  grew  high, 
And  men  fell  out,  they  knew  not  why ; 
When  hard  words,  jealousies,  and  fears, 
Set  folks  together  by  the  ears ; 
When  gospel-trumpeter,  surrounded 
With  long-eared  rout,  to  battle  sounded ; 
And  pulpit,  drum  ecclesiastic, 
Was  beat  with  fist  instead  of  a  stick, — 
Then  did  Sir  Knight  abandon  dwelling, 
And  out  he  rode  a-colonelling. 


544  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

A  wight  he  was,  whose  very  sight  would 
Entitle  him  mirror  of  knighthood ; 
That  never  bowed  his,  stubborn  knee 
To  any  thing  but  chivalry, 
Nor  put  up  blow  but  that  which  laid 
Right  worshipful  on  shoulder-blade. 
But  here  some  authors  make  a  doubt 
Whether  he  were  more  wise  or  stout : 
Some  hold  the  one,  and  some  the  other. 
But,  howsoe'er  they  make  a  pother, 
The  difference  was  so  small,  his  brain 
Outweighed  his  rage  but  half  a  grain ; 
Which  made  some  take  him  lor  a  tool 
That  knaves  do  work  with,  called  a  fool. 
We  grant,  although  he  had  much  wit, 
He  was  very  shy  of  using  it, 
As  being  loath  to  wear  it  out, 
And  therefore  bore  it  not  about, 
Unless  on  holidays  or  so, 
As  men  their  best  apparel  do. 
Besides,  'tis  known  he  could  speak  Greek 
As  naturally  as  pigs  do  squeak  ; 
That  Latin  was  no  more  difficile 
Than  to  a  blackbird  'tis  to  whistle. 

He  was  in  logic  a  great  critic, 
Profoundly  skilled  in  analytic  : 
He  could  distinguish  and  divide 
A  hair  'twixt  south  and  south-west  side ; 
On  either  which  he  would  dispute, 
Confute,  change  hands,  and  still  confute. 
He'd  undertake  to  prove  by  force 
Of  argument  a  man's  no  horse; 
He'd  prove  a  buzzard  is  no  fowl, 
And  that  a  lord  may  be  an  owl, 
A  calf  an  alderman,  a  goose  a*  justice, 
And  rooks  committee-men  and  trustees. 
He'd  run  in  debt  by  disputation, 
And  pay  with  ratiocination. 
All  this  by  syllogism  true, 
In  mood  and  figure,  he  would  do. 
For  rhetoric,  he  could  not  ope 
His  mouth,  but  out  there  flew  a  trope : 
And  when  he  happened  to  break  off 
In  the  middle  of  his  speech,  or  cough, 
He  had  hard  words  ready  to  show  why, 
And  tell  what  rules  he  did  it  by ; 
Else,  when  with  greatest  art  he  spoke, 
You'd  think  he  talked  like  other  folk  ; 
For  all  a  rhetorician's  rules 
Teach  nothing  but  to  name  his  tools. 
But,  when  he  pleased  to  show't,  his  speech, 
In  loftiness  of  sound,  was  rich ; 


SAMUEL  BUTLER.  545 

A  Babylonish  dialect, 

Which  learned  pedants  much  affect : 

It  was  a  party-colored  dress 

Of  patched  and  piebald  languages  ; 

'Twas  English  cut  on  Greek  and  Latin, 

Like  fustian  heretofore  on  satin  ; 

It  had  an  odd,  promiscuous  tone, 

As  if  he  had  talked  three  parts  in  one ; 

Which  made  some  think,  when  he  did  gabble, 

They  had  heard  three  laborers  of  Babel, 

Or  Cerberus  himself  pronounce 

A  leash  of  languages  at  once. 

This  he  as  volubly  would  vent 

As  if  his  stock  would  ne'er  be  spent. 

And  truly,  to  support  that  charge, 

He  had  supplies  as  vast  and  large; 

For  he  could  coin  or  counterfeit 

New  words  with  little  or  no  wit,  — 

Words  so  debased  and  hard,  no  stone 

Was  hard  enough  to  touch  them  on  ; 

And,  when  with  hasty  noise  he  spoke  'em, 

The  ignorant  for  current  took  'em ; 

That  had  the  orator,  who  once 

Did  fill  his  mouth  with  pebble-stones 

When  he  harangued,  but  known  his  phrase, 

He  would  have  used  no  other  ways. 

In  mathematics  he  was  greater 
Than  Tycho  Brahe  or  Erra  Pater : 
For  he  by  geometric  scale 
Could  take  the  size  of  pots  of  ale ; 
Resolve  by  sines  and  tangents  straight 
If  bread  or  butter  wanted  weight ; 
And  wisely  tell  what  hour  o'  the  day 
The  clock  does  strike,  by  algebra. 

Besides,  he  was  a  shrewd  philosopher, 
And  had  read  every  text  and  gloss  over: 
Whate'er  the  crabbed'st  author  hath, 
He  understood  by  implicit  faith ; 
Whatever  skeptic  could  inquire  for, 
For  every  why  he  had  a  wherefore; 
Knew  more  than  forty  of  them  do, 
As  far  as  words  and  terms  could  go ; 
All  which  he' understood  by  rote, 
And,  as  occasion  served,  would  quote ; 
No  matter  whether  right  or  wrong ; 
They  might  be  either  said  or  sung. 
His  notions  fitted  things  so  well, 
That  which  was  which  he  could  not  tell, 
But  oftentimes  mistook  the  one 
For  the  other,  as  great  clerks  have  done. 
He  could  reduce  all  things  to  acts, 
And  knew  their  natures  by  abstracts, — 
35 


546  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


Where  entity  and  quiddity, 

The  ghosts  of  defuncfc  bodies,  fly ; 

Where  Truth  in  person  does  appear, 

Like  words  congealed  in  northern  air. 

lie  knew  what's  what,  and  that's  as  high 

As  metaphysic  wit  can  fly. 

He  could  raise  scruples  dark  and  nice, 

And,  after,  solve  'em  in  a  trice, 

As  if  Divinity  had  catched 

The  itch  on  purpose  to  be  scratched ; 

Or,  like  a  mountebank,  did  wound 

And  stab  herself  with  doubts  profound, 

Only  to  show  with  how  small  pain 

The  sores  of  faith  are  cured  again ; 

Although,  by  woeful  proof,  we  find 

They  always  leave  a  scar  behind. 

For  his  religion,  it  was  fit 
To  match  his  learning  and  his  wit : 
'Twas  Presbyterian  true  blue  ; 
For  he  was  of  that  stubborn  crew 
Of  errant  saints  whom  all  men  grant 
To  be  the  true  Church  militant ; 
Such  as  do  build  their  faith  upon 
The  holy  text  of  pike  and  gun, 
Decide  all  controversies  by 
Infallible  artillery, 
And  prove  their  doctrine  orihodox 
By  apostolic  blows  and  knocks ; 
Call  fire  and  sword  and  desolation 
A  s;o<Hy,  thorough  reformation, 
Which  always  must  be  carried  on, 
And  still  be  doing,  never  done : 
As  if  religion  were  intended 
For  nothing  else  but  to  be  mended  1 
A  sect  whose  chief  devotion  lies 
In  odd,  perverse  antipathies ; 
In  falling  out  with  that  or  this, 
And  finding  somewhat  still  amiss  ; 
More  peevish,  cross,  and  splenetic 
Than  dog  distract,  or  monkey  sick ; 
That  with  more  care  keep  holy-day 
The  wrong  than  others  the  right  way ; 
Compound  for  sins  they  are  inclined  to 
By  damning  those  they  have  no  mind  to. 
Still  to  perverse  and  opposite, 
As  if  they  worshiped  God  for  spite, 
The  self-same  thing  they  will  abhor 
One  way,  and  long  another  for. 
Free-will  they  one  way  disavow  ; 
Another,  nothing  else  allow. 
All  piety  consists  therein 
Iu  them ;  in  other  men,  all  sin. 


OTHER   WRITERS   OF  DISTINCTION.  547 

Rather  than  fail,  they  will  decry 

That  which  they  love  most  ten;lerly; 

Quarrel  with  mince-pies,  and  disparage 

Their  best  and  dearest  friend,  plum-porridge : 

Fat  pig  and  goose  itself  oppose, 

And  blaspheme  custard  through  the  nose. 

His  doublet  was  of  sturdy  buff; 
And  though  not  sword,  yet  cudgel-proof; 
Whereby  'twas  fitter  for  his  use, 
Who  feared  jio  blows  but  such  as  bruise. 

His  breeches  were  of  rugged  woolen, 
And  had  been  at  the  siege  of  Bullen ; 
To  old  King  Harry  so  well  known, 
Some  writers  held  they  were  his  own ; 
Though  they  were  lined  with  many  a  piece 
Of  ammunition  bread  and  cheese, 
And  fat  black-puddings,  —  proper  food 
For  warriors  that  delight  in  blood : 
For,  as  we  said,  he  always  chose 
To  carry  victuals  in  his  hose, 
That  often  tempted  rats  and  mice 
The  ammunition  to  surprise  ; 
And,  when  he  put  a  hand  but  in 
The  one  or  t'other  magazine, 
They  stoutly  on  defense  on't  stood, 
And  from  the  wounded  foe  drew  blood. 


OTHER  WRITERS  OF  DISTINCTION. 

JOHN  LOCKE.  — 1632-1704.  Author  of  "An  Essay  concerning  Human  Under- 
standing," "  Thoughts  concerning  Education,"  and  other  philosophical  essays. 

RICHARD  BAXTER.  — 1615-1691.  "The  Saints'  Everlasting  Rest,"  "A  Call  to 
the  Unconverted,"  and  "  A  Narrative  of  his  Own  Life  and  Times." 

WENTWORTH  DILLON.  — 1634  -1685.    "  An  Essay  on  Translated  Verse." 

CHARLES  SACKVILLE.  — 1637-1705.  A  few  songs.  Patron  of  Butler  and 
Dryden. 

CHARLES  SEDLEY.  — 1639  -1701.    Plays  and  spirited  songs. 

JOHN  WILMOT.  — 1047-1680.    Writer  of  songs. 

THOMAS  OTWAY.  —  1G51-1685.    "  Venice  Preserved,"  a  play;  "  The  Orphan." 

MATTHEW  PRIOR. —  1664-1721.  "The  Town  and  Country  Mouse,"  "Solo- 
mon." 

JOHN  PHILLIPS.  — 1676-1708.  "The  Splendid  Shilling,"  —  attempt  to  parody 
Milton. 

HENRY  MOORE. —  1614-1687.  "The  Mystery  of  Godliness,"  "  Immortal  ity  of 
the  Soul." 

JOHN  OWEN.  — 1616-1683.  "  Exposition  of  Hebrews,"  "  Divine  Original  of  the 
Scriptures." 


548  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

EDWARD  STILLING  FLEET.  —  1635-1699.     Sermon?,  and  several  essays. 

THOMAS  BUKXET.—  1635-1715.  "The  State  of  the  Dead  and  Reviving,"  and 
others. 

THOMAS  SPRAT.  — 1636-1713.  "  History  of  the  Royal  Society,"  "  An  Account 
of  the  Rye-house  Plot." 

Lady  RACHEL  RUSSELL,    "  Letters." 

WILLIAM  WYCHERLET.  — 1640-1715.    Writer  of  comedies. 

WILLIAM  SHERLOCK.  — 1641-1707.  "On  the  Immortality  of  the  Soul,"  and 
several  works  against  dissenters. 

GILBERT  BURXET.—  1643-1715.  "History  of  the  Reformation,"  "History  of 
My  Own  Times,"  and  *'  The  Thirty-nine  Articles." 

JOHN  STRYPE. —  1643-1737.     Several  religious  works. 

WILLIAM  PEXX.  — 1644  -1718.  Distinguished  Quaker.  "  No  Cross,  no  Crown ;  " 
"  The  Conduct  of  Life; "  and  "  A  Brief  Account  of  the  People  called  Quakers." 

ROBERT  BARCLAY.  — 1648 -1690.    "Apology." 

MATTHEW  HEXRY.  —  1662-1714.    Unfinished  "  Commentary  on  the  Bible." 

EICHARD  BEXTLEY.  — 1662  -1742.     Celebrated  editor  of  the  classics. 

Sir  JOHX  VAUBRUG.  — 1666-1726.     "  The  Provoked  Wife,"  and  other  plays. 

JOHX  ARBUTHXOT.  —1667-1735.  "  History  of  John  Bull,"  "  Scolding  of  the 
Ancients,"  "  Art  of  Political  Lying,"  and  much  of  "  Martinus  Scriblerus  "  in  Pope's 
works. 

WILLIAM  COXGREVE. — 1670-1729.  "The  Mourning  Bride,"  a  tragedy;  and 
several  comedies. 

GEORGE  FARQUHAR.  — 1678-1708.  "  The  Recruiting  Officer,"  "  The  Beau's 
Stratagem,"  and  others. 


JOHX   MILTON. 

1608-1674. 


"  Paradise  Lost,"  the  only  great  original  epic  in  the  English  language, 
egained,"  "  Ode  on  the  Nativity,"  "  L' Allegro,"  "  II  Penseroso,"  **  Ar- 
nus,"  and  "  Lycidas."  "  The'Areopagitica,"  and  other  prose-works, 


Author  of 

"Paradise  Regained 
cades,"  "  Comus,"  a 
are  worthy  of  the  great  secretary  of  Cromwell 


PARADISE   LOST. 

OF  man's  first  disobedience,  and  the  fruit 
Of  that  forbidden  tree  whose  mortal  taste 
Brought  death  into  the  world,  and  all  our  woe, 
With  loss  of  Eden,  till  one  greater  Man 
Restore  us,  and  regain  the  blissful  seat, 
Sing,  heavenly  Muse  !  that  on  the  secret  top 
Of  Oreb  or  of  Sinai  didst  inspire 
That  shepherd  who  first  taught  the  chosen  seed 
In  the  beginning  how  the  heavens  and  earth 
Rose  out  of  chaos.     Or  if  Sion  hill 


JOHN  MILTON.  549 

Delight  thee  more,  and  Siloa's  brook  that  flowed 
Fast  by  the  oracle  of  God,  I  thence 
Invoke  thy  aid  to  my  adventurous  song, 
That  with  no  middle  flight  intends  to  soar 
Above  the  Aonian  mount,  while  it  pursues 
Things  unattempted  yet  in  prose  or  rhyme. 
And  chiefly  thou,  O  Spirit !  that  dost  prefer 
Before  all  temples  the  upright  heart  and  pure, 
Instruct  me  ;  for  thou  know'st :  thou  from  the  first 
Wast  present,  and,  with  mighty  wings  outspread, 
Dovelike  sat'st  brooding  on  the  vast  abyss, 
And  mad'st  it  pregnant.     What  in  me  is  dark, 
Illumine ;  what  is  low,  raise  and  support ; 
That  to  the  liight  of  this  great  argument 
I  may  assert  Eternal  Providence, 
And  justify  the  ways  of  God  to  men. 

Say  first  (for  heaven  hides  nothing  from  thy  view, 
Nor  the  deep  tract  of  hell), —  say  first,  what  cause 
Moved  our  grand  parents  in  that  happy  state, 
Favored  of  Heaven  so  highly,  to  fall  off 
From  their  Creator,  and  transgress  bis  will 
For  one  restraint,  lords  of  the  world  besides  ? 
Who  first  seduced  them  to  that  foul  revolt  ? 
The  infernal  Serpent :  he  it  was  whose  guile, 
Stirred  up  with  envy  and  revenge,  deceived 
The  mother  of  mankind,  what  time  his  pride 
Had  cast  him  out  from  heaven  with  all  his  host 
Of  rebel  angels ;  by  whose  aid,  aspiring 
To  set  himself  in  glory  'bove  his  peers, 
He  trusted  to  have  equaled  the  Most  High 
If  he  opposed,  and,  with  ambitious  aim, 
Against  the  throne  and  monarchy  of  God 
Raised  impious  war  in  heaven,  and  battle  proud 
With  vain  attempt.     Him  the  Almighty  Power 
Hurled  headlong  flaming  from  the  ethereal  sky 
With  hideous  ruin  and  combustion,  down 
To  bottomless  perdition,  there  to  dwell 
In  adamantine  chains  and  penal  fire, 
Who  durst  defy  the  Omnipotent  to  arms. 
Nine  times  the  space  that  measures  day  and  night 
To  mortal  men,  he  with  his  horrid  crew 
Lay  vanquished,  rolling  in  the  fiery  gulf, 
Confounded,  though  immortal.     But  his  doom 
Reserved  him  to  more  wrath  ;  for  now  the  thought 
Both  of  lost  happiness  and  lasting  pain 
Torments  him.     Round  he  throws  his  baleful  eyes, 
That  witnessed  huge  affliction  and  dismay, 
Mixed  with  obdurate  pride  and  steadfast  hate. 
At  once,  as  far  as  angel's  ken,  he  views 
The  dismal  situation  waste  and  wild  : 
A  dungeon  horrible  on  all  sides  round 
As  one  great  furnace  flamed ;  yet  from  those  flames 


550  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

No  light,  but  rather  darkness  visible, 

Served  only  to  discover  sights  of  woe, 

Regions  of  sorrow,  doleful  shades,  where  peace 

And  rest  can  never  dwell ;  hope  never  comes, 

That  comes  to  all ;  but  torture  without  end 

Still  urges,  and  a  fiery  deluge,  fed 

With  ever-burning  sulphur  unconsumed. 

Such  place  Eternal  Justice  had  prepared 

For  those  rebellious ;  here  their  prison  ordained 

In  utter  darkness,  and  their  portion  set 

As  far  removed  from  God  and  light  of  heaven 

As  from  the  center  thrice  to  the  utmost  pole. 

Oh,  how  unlike  the  place  from  whence  they  fell ! 

There  the  companions  of  his  fall,  o'erwhelmed 

With  floods  and  whirlwinds  of  tempestuous  fire, 

He  soon  discerns ;  and,  weltering  by  his  side, 

One  next  himself  in  power,  and  next  in  crime, 

Long  after  known  in  Palestine,  and  named    ' 

Beelzebub.     To  whom  the  Arch-Enemy, 

And  thence  in  heaven  called  Satan,  with  bold  words 

Breaking  the  horrid  silence,  thus  began  :  — 

"  If  thou  beest  he  —  but,  oh,  how  fallen,  how  changed, 
From  him,  who,  in  the  happy  realms  of  light, 
Clothed  with  transcendent  brightness,  didst  outshine 
Myriads  though  bright !  — if  he  whom  mutual  league, 
United  thoughts  and  counsels,  equal  hope 
And  hazard  in  the  glorious  enterprise, 
Joined  with  me  once,  now  misery  hath  joined 
In  equal  ruin  :  into  what  pit  thou  seest 
From  what  hight  fallen,  so  much  the  stronger  proved 
He  with  his  thunder ;  and  till  then  who  knew 
The  force  of  those  dire  arms  ?     Yet  not  for  those, 
Nor  what  the  potent  victor  in  his  rage 
Can  else  inflict,  do  I  repent  or  change, 
Though  changed  in  outward  luster,  that  fixed  mind 
And  high  disdain  from  sense  of  injured  merit, 
That  with  the  Mightiest  raised  me  to  contend, 
And  to  the  fierce  contention  brought  along 
Innumerable  force  of  spirits  armed, 
That  durst  dislike  his  reign,  and,  me  preferring, 
His  utmost  power  with  adverse  power  opposed 
In  dubious  battle  on  the  plains  of  heaven, 
And  shook  his  throne.     What  though  the  field  be  lost  ? 
All  is  not  lost :  the  unconquerable  will, 
And  study  of  revenge,  immortal  hate, 
And  courage  never  to  submit  or  yield ; 
And  what  is  else  not  to  be  overcome : 
That  glory  never  shall  his  wrath  or  mi^ht 
Extort  from  me.     To  bow  and  sue  for  grace 
With  suppliant  knee,  and  deify  his  power, 
Who  from  the  terror  of  this  arm  so  late 
Doubted  his  empire,  —  that  were  low  indeed  ! 


JOHN  MILTON.  551 

That  were  an  ignominy  and  shame  beneath 
This  downfall !  since  by  fate  the  strength  of  gods 
And  this  empyreal  substance  can  not  fail ; 
Since  through  experience  of  this  great  event 
In  arms  not  worse,  in  foresight  much  advanced, 
We  may  with  more  successful  hope  resolve 
To  wage  by  force  or  guile  eternal  war, 
Irreconcilable  to  our  grand  foe, 
Who  now  triumphs,  and,  in  the  excess  of  joy 
Sole  reigning,  holds  the  tyranny  of  heaven." 

So  spake  the  apostate  Angel,  though  in  pain, 
Vaunting  aloud,  but  racked  with  deep  despair ; 
And  him  thus  answered  soon  his  bold  compeer  :  — 

O  Prince,  O  Chief  of  many  throned  powers, 
That  led  the  embattled  seraphim  to  war 
Under  thy  conduct,  and,  in  dreadful  deeds 
Fearless,  endangered  heaven's  perpetual  King, 
And  put  to  proof  his  high  supremacy, 
Whether  upheld  by  strength  or  chance  or  fate  1 
Too  well  I  see  and  rue  the  dire  event, 
That  with  sad  overthrow  and  foul  defeat 
Hath  lost  us  heaven,  and  all  this  mighty  host 
In  horrible  destruction  laid  thus  low, 
As  far  as  gods  and  heavenly  essences 
Can  perish  ;  for  the  mind  and  spirit  remains 
Invincible,  and  vigor  soon  returns, 
Though  all  our  glory  extinct,  and  happy  state 
Here  swallowed  up  in  endless  misery. 
But  what  if  He,  our  conqueror  (whom  I  now 
Of  force  believe  almighty,  since  no  less 
Than  such  could  have  overpowered  such  force  as  ours), 
Have  left  us  this  our  spirit  and  strength  entire, 
Strongly  to  suffer,  and  support  our  pains, 
That  we  may  so  suffice  his  vengeful  ire, 
Or  do  him  mightier  service  as  his  thralls 
By  right  of  war,  whate'er  his  business  be 
Here  in  the  heart  of  hell  to  work  in  fire, 
Or  do  his  errands  in  the  gloomy  deep  ? 
What  can  it  then  avail,  though  yet  we  feel 
Strength  undiminished,  or  etern'al  being 
To  undergo  eternal  punishment  ?  " 
Whereto  with  speedy  words  the  Arch-Fiend  replied  :  — 

"  Fallen  cherub,  to  be  weak  is  miserable, 
Doing  or  suffering ;  but  of  this  be  sure,  — 
To  do  aught  good  never  will  be  our  task, 
But  ever  to  do  ill  our  sole  delight, 
As  being  the  contrary  to  His  high  will 
Whom  we  resist.     If,  then,  his  providence    . 
Out  of  our  evil  seek  to  bring  forth  good, 
Our  labor  must  be  to  pervert  that  end, 
And  out  of  good  still  to  find  means  of  evil  ; 
Which  ofttinies  may  succeed,  so  as  perhaps 


552  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Shall  grieve  him,  if  I  fail  not,  and  disturb 

His  inmost  counsels  from  their  destined  aim. 

But  see  !  the  angry  victor  hath  recalled 

His  ministers  of  vengeance  and  pursuit 

Back  to  the  gates  of  heaven  :  the  sulphurous  hail, 

Shot  after  us  in  storm,  o'erblown  hath  laid 

The  fiery  surge,  that  from  the  precipice 

Of  heaven  received  us  falling ;  and  the  thunder, 

Winged  with  red  lightning  and  impetuous  rage, 

Perhaps  hath  spent  his  shafts,  and  ceases  now 

To  bellow  through  the  vast  and  boundless  deep. 

Let  us  not  slip  the  occasion,  whether  scorn 

Or  satiate  fury  yield  it  from  our  foe. 

Seest  thou  yon  dreary  plain,  forlorn  and  wild, 

The  seat  of  desolation,  void  of  light 

Save  what  the  glimmering  of  these  livid  flames 

Casts  pale  and  dreadful  ?     Thither  let  us  tend 

From  off  the  tos?ing  of  these  fiery  waves ; 

There  rest,  if  any  rest  can  harbor  there; 

And,  re-assembling  our  afflicted  powers, 

Consult  how  we  may  henceforth  most  offend 

Our  enemy,  our  own  loss  how  repair, 

How  overcome  this  dire  calamity ; 

What  re-enforcement  we  may  gain  from  hope ; 

If  not,  what  resolution  from  despair." 

Thus  Satan,  talking  to  his  nearest  mate 
With  head  uplift  above  the  wave,  and  eyes 
That  sparkling  blazed  ;  his  other  parts  besides 
Prone  on  the  flood,  extended  long  and  large, 
Lay  floating  many  a  rood,  in  bulk  as  huge 
As  whom  the  fables  name  of  monstrous  size, — 
Titanian,  or  earth-born,  that  warred  on  Jove, 
Briareos,  or  Typhon,  whom  the  den 
By  ancient  Tarsus  held ;  or  that  sea-beast, 
Leviathan,  which  God  of  all  his  works 
Greatest  hugest  that  swim  the  ocean-stream : 
Him  haply  slumbering  on  the  Norway  foam, 
The  pilot  of  some  small  night-foundered  skiff 
Deeming  some  island,  oft,  as  seamen  tell, 
With  fixed  anchor  in  his  scaly  rind 
Moors  by  his  side  under  the  lea,  while  night 
Invests  the  sea,  and  wished  morn  delays : 
So,  stretched  out  huge  in  length,  the  Arch-Fiend  lay 
Chained  on  the  burning  lake";  nor  ever  thence 
Had  risen  or  heaved  his  head  but  that  the  will 
And  high  permission  of  all-ruling  Heaven 
Left  him  at  large  to  his  own  dark  designs, 
That  with  reiterated  crimes  he  might 
Heap  on  himself  damnation  while  he  sought 
Evil  to  others,  and  enraged  might  see 
How  all  his  malice  served  but  to  bring  forth 
Infinite  goodness,  grace,  and  mercy  shown 


JOHN  MILTON.  553 

On  man,  by  him  seduced ;  but  on  himself 

Treble  confusion,  wrath,  and  vengeance  poured. 

Forthwith  upright  he  rears  from  off'  the  pool 

His  mighty  stature  :  on  each  hand  the  flames, 

Driven  backward,  slope  their  pointing  spires,  and,  rolled 

In  billows,  leave  in  the  midst  a  horrid  vale. 

Then  with  expanded  wings  he  steers  his  flight 

Aloft,  incumbent  on  the  dusky  air, 

That  felt  unusual  weight ;  till  on  dry  land 

He  lights,  if  it  were  land  that  ever  burned 

With  solid,  as  the  lake  with  liquid,  fire ; 

And  such  appeared  in  hue  as  when  the  force 

Of  subterranean  wind  transports  a  hill 

Torn  from  Pelorus,  or  the  shattered  side 

Of  thundering  JEtna,  whose  combustible 

And  fueled  entrails  thence  conceiving  fire, 

Sublimed  with  mineral  fury,  aid  the  winds, 

And  leave  a  singed  bottom  all  involved 

With  stench  and  smoke :  such  resting  found  the  sole 

Of  unblest  feet.     Him  followed  his  next  mate, 

Both  glorying  to  have  'scaped  the  Stygian  flood 

As  gods,  and  by  their  own  recovered  strength, 

Not  by  the  sufferance  of  Supernal  Power. 

"  Is  this  the  region,  this  the  soil,  the  clime," 
Said  then  the  lost  Arch-Angel,  "  this  the  seat, 
That  we  must  change  for  heaven  ?  this  mournful  gloom 
For  that  celestial  light  ?     Be  it  so,  since  He 
Who  now  is  Sovran  can  dispose  and  bid 
What  shall  be  right :  farthest  from  Him  is  best, 
Whom  reason  hath  equalled,  force  hath  made  supreme 
Above  his  equals.     Farewell,  happy  fields, 
Where  joy  for  ever  dwells  !  hail,  horrors !  hail, 
Infernal  world !  and  thou  profoundest  Hell, 
Receive  thy  new  possessor,  —  one  who  brings 
A  mind  not  to  be  changed  by  place  or  time. 
The  mind  is  its  own  place,  and  in  itself 
Can  make  a  heaven  of  hell,  a  hell  of  heaven. 
What  matter  where,  if  I  be  still  the  same, 
And  what  I  should  be,  —  all  but  less  than  He 
Whom  thunder  hath  made  greater  ?     Here,  at  least, 
We  shall  be  free.    The  Almighty  hath  not  built 
Here  for  his  envy,  will  not  drive  us  hence. 
Here  we  may  reign  secure ;  and  in  my  choice 
To  reign  is  worth  ambition,  though  in  hell : 
Better  to  reign  in  hell  than  serve  in  heaven ! 
But  wherefore  let  we  then  our  faithful  friends, 
The  associates  and  copartners  of  our  loss, 
Lie  thus  astonished  on  the  oblivious  pool, 
And  call  them  not  to  share  with  us  their  part 
In  this  unhappy  mansion,  or  once  more 
With  rallied  arms  to  try  what  may  be  yet 
Regained  in  heaven,  or  what  more  lost  in  hell  ?  " 


5oi  ENGLISH  LITERATURE, 

So  Satan  spake ;  and  him  Beelzebub 
Thus  answered  :  "  Leader  of  those  armies  bright, 
Which  but  the  Omnipotent  none  could  have  ibiled, 
If  once  they  hear  that  voice,  their  liveliest  pledge 
Of  hope  in  fears  and  dangers,  heard  so  oft 
In  worst  extremes,  and  on  the  perilous  edge 
Of  battle  when  it  raided,  in  all  assaults 
Their  surest  signal,  they  will  soon  resume 
New  courage,  and  revive,  though  now  they  lie 
Groveling  and  prostrate  on  yon  lake  of  fire, 
As  we  erewhile,  astounded  and  amazed,  — 
Xo  wonder,  fallen  such  a  pernicious  hight." 

He  scarce  had  ceased  when  the  superior  Fiend 
Was  moving  toward  the  shore.     His  ponderous  shield, 
Ethereal  temper,  massy,  large,  and  round, 
Behind  him  cast :  the  broad  circumference 
Hung  on  his  shoulders  like  the  moon,  whose  orb 
Through  optic  glass  the  Tuscan  artist  views 
At  evening  from  the  top  of  Fesoler 
Or  in  Valdarno,  to  descry  new  lands, 
Rivers,  or  mountains,  on  her  spotty  globe. 
His  spear,  to  equal  which  the  talle'st  pine 
Hewn  on  Norwegian  hills  to  be  the  mast 
Of  some  great  aminiral  were  but  a  wand, 
He  walked  with  to  support  uneasy  steps 
Over  the  burning  marl ;  not  like  those  steps 
On  Heaven's  azure :  and  the  torrid  clime 
Smote  on  him  sore  besides,  vaulted  with  fire. 
Nathless  he  so  endured,  till  on  the  beach 
Of  that  inflamed  sea  he  stood,  and  called 
His  legions,  angel-forms,  who  lay  entranced 
Thick  as  autumnal  leaves  that  strew  the  brooks 
In  Vallombrosa,  where  the  Etrurian  shades 
Hiiih  overarched  embower ;  or  scattered  sedge 
Afloat,  when  with  fierce  winds  Orion  armed 
Hnth  vexed  the  Red-sea  coast,  whose  waves  o'erthrew 
Busiris  and  his  Memphian  chivalry, 
While  with  perfidious  hatred  they  pursued 
The  sojourners  of  Goshen.  who  beheld 
From  the  safe  shore  their  floating  carcasses 
And  broken  chariot-wheels  :  so  thick  bestrewn, 
Abject  and  lost,  lay  these,  covering  the  flood, 
Under  amazement  of  their  hideous  change. 
He  called  so  loud,  that  all  the  hollow  deep 
Of  hell  resounded  :  "  Princes,  potentates, 
Warriors,  the  flower. of  heaven,  once  yours,  now  lost ! 
If  such  astonishment  as  this  can  seize 
Eternal  spirits ;  or  have  ye  chosen  this  place 
After  the  toil  of  battle  to  repose      • 
Your  wearied  virtue,  for  the  ease  you  find 
To  slumber  here  as  in  the  vales  of  heaven  ? 
Or  in  this  abject  posture  have  ye  sworn 


JOHN  MILTON.  555 

To  adore  the  conqueror  ?  who  now  beholds 
Cherub  and  serapn  rolling  in  the  flood 
With  scattered  anus  and  ensigns,  till  anon 
His  swift  pursuers  from  heaven-gates  discern 
The  advantage,  and,  descending,  tread  us  down 
Thus  drooping,  or  with  linked  thunderbolts 
Transfix  us  to  the  bottom  of  this  gulf. 
Awake !  arise  !  or  be  for  ever  fallen  !  " 

They  heard,  and  were  abashed ;  and  up  they  sprang 
Upon  the  wing,  as  when  men  wont  to  watch 
On  duty,  sleeping  found  by  whom  they  dread, 
Rouse  and  bestir  themselves  ere  well  awake. 
Nor  did  they  not  perceive  the  evil  plight 
In  which  they  were,  or  the  fierce  pains  not  feel ; 
Yet  to  their  general's  voice  they  soon  obeyed 
Innumerable.     As  when  the  potent  rod 
Of  Amram's  son,  in  Egypt's  evil  day 
Waved  round  the  coast,  upcalled  a  pitchy  cloud 
Of  locusts,  warping  on  the  eastern  wind, 
That  o'er  the  realm  of  impious  Pharaoh  hung 
Like  night,  and  darkened  all  the  land  of  Nile  : 
So  numberless  were  those  bad  angels  seen 
Hovering  on  wing  under  the  cope  of  hell 
'Twixt  upper,  nether,  and  surrounding  fires  ; 
Till,  as  a  signal  given,  the  uplifted  spear 
Of  their  great  sultan  waving  to  direct 
Their  course,  in  even  balance  down  they  light 
On  the  firm  brimstone,  and  fill  all  the  plain, — 
A  multitude  like  which  the  populous  north 
Poured  never  from  her  frozen  loins  to  pass 
Rhene  or  the  Danaw  when  her  barbarous  sons 
Came  like  a  deluge  on  the  south,  and  spread 
Beneath  Gibraltar  to  the  Libyan  sands. 
Forthwith  from  every  squadron  and  each  band 
The  heads  and  leaders  thither  haste  where  stood 
Their  great  commander  ;  godlike  shapes  and  forms 
Excelling  human,  princely  dignities, 
And  powers  that  erst  in  heaven  sat  on  thrones, 
Though  of  their  names  in  heavenly  records  now 
Be  no  memorial,  blotted  out  and  rased 
By  their  rebellion  from  the  books  of  life. 
Nor  had  they  yet  among  the  sons  of  Eve 
Got  them  new  names,  till  wandering  o'er  the  earth, 
Through  God's  high  sufferance  for  the  trial  of  man, 
By  falsities  and  lies  the  greatest  part 
Of  mankind  they  corrupted,  to  forsake 
God  their  Creator,  and  the  invisible 
Glory  of  Him  that  made  them  to  transform 
Oft  to  the  image  of  a  brute,  adorned 
With  gay  religions  full  of  pomp  and  gold, 
And  devils  to  adore  for  deities  : 
Then  were  they  known  to  men  by  various  names, 


556  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

And  various  idols  through  the  heathen  world. 

Say,  Muse,  their  names  then  known,  who  first,  who  last, 

Roused  from  the  slumber  on  that  fiery  couch 

At  their  great  emperor's  call,  as  next  in  worth 

Came  singly  where  he  stood  on  the  bare  strand, 

While  the  promiscuous  crowd  stood  yet  aloof? 

The  chief  were  those  who  from  the  pit  of  hell, 

Roaming  to  seek  their  prey  on  earth,  durst  fix 

Their  seats  long  after  next  the  seat  of  God, 

Their  altars  by  his  altar,  gods  adored 

Among  the  nations  round ;  and  durst  abide 

Jehovah  thundering  out  of  Sion,  throned 

Between  the  cherubim  ;  yea,  often  placed 

Within  his  sanctuary  itself  their  shrines, 

Abominations,  and  with  cursed  things 

His  holy  rites  and  solemn  feasts  profaned, 

And  with  their  darkness  durst  affront  his  light. 

First  Moloch,  horrid  king,  besmeared  with  blood 

Of  human  sacrifice  and  parents'  tears, 

Though  for  the  noise  of  drums  and  timbrels  loud 

Their  children's  cries  unheard,  that  passed  through  fire 

To  his  grim  idol.     Him  the  Ammonite 

Worshiped  in  Rabba  and  her  watery  plain, 

In  Argob  and  in  Basan,  to  the  stream 

Of  utmost  Arnon.     Nor  content  with  such 

Audacious  neighborhood,  the  wisest  heart 

Of  Solomon  he  led  by  fraud  to  build 

His  temple  right  against  the  temple  of  God 

On  that  opprobrious  hill,  and  made  his  grove 

The  pleasant  vale  of  Hinnom,  Tophet  thence 

And  black  Gehenna  called,  the  type  of  hell. 

Next  Chemos,  the  obscene  dread  of  Moab's  sons 

From  Aroar  to  Nebo  and  the  wild 

Of  southmost  Abarim ;  in  Hesebon 

And  Horonaim,  Seon's  realm,  beyond 

The  flowery  dale  of  Sibma  clad  with  vines, 

And  Eleale  to  the  Asphaltic  pool. 

Peor  his  other  name,  when  he  enticed 

Israel  in  Sittira,  on  their  march  from  Nile, 

To  do  him  wanton  rites  which  cost  them  woe. 

Yet  thence  his  lustful  orgies  he  enlarged 

E'en  to  that  hill  of  scandal  by  the  grove 

Of  Moloch  homicide,  — lust  hard  by  hate, — 

Till  good  Josiah  drove  them  thence  to  hell. 

With  these  came  they,  who,  from  the  bordering  flood 

Of  old  Euphrates  to  the  brook  that  parts 

Eorypt  from  Syrian  ground,  had  general  names 

Of  Baalim  and  Ashtaroth :  those  male, 

These  feminine ;  for  spirits,  when  they  please, 

Can  either  sex  assume,  or  both  ;  so  soft 

And  uncompounded  is  their  essence  pure. 

Not  tied  nor  manacled  with  joint  or  limb, 


JOHN  MILTON.  557 

Nor  founded  on  the  brittle  strength  of  bones, 

Like  cumbrous  flesh ;  but  in  what  shape  they  choose, 

Dilated  or  condensed,  bright  or  obscure, 

Can  execute  their  airy  purposes, 

And  works  of  love  or  enmity  fulfill. 

For  those  the  race  of  Israel  oft  forsook 

Their  living  Strength,  and  unfrequented  left 

His  righteous  altar,  bowing  lowly  down 

To  bestial  gods ;  for  which  their  heads,  as  low 

Bowed  down  in  battle,  sank  before  the  spear 

Of  despicable  foes.     With  these  in  troop 

Came  Astoreth,  whom  the  Phoenicians  called 

Astarte,  queen  of  heaven,  with  crescent  horns ; 

To  whose  bright  image  nightly  by  the  moon 

Sidonian  virgins  paid  their  vows  and  songs  : 

In  Sion  also  not  unsung,  where  stood 

Her  temple  on  the  offensive  mountain,  built 

By  that  uxorious  king,  whose  heart,  though  large, 

Beguiled  by  fair  idolatresses,  fell 

To  idols  foul.     Thammuz  came  next  behind, 

Whose  annual  wound  in  Lebanon  allured 

The  Syrian  damsels  to  lament  his  fate 

In  amorous  ditfeies  all  a  summer's  day ; 

While  smooth  Adonis  from  his  native  rock 

Ran  purple  to  the  sea,  supposed  with  blood 

Of  Thammuz  yearly  wounded.     The  love-tale 

Infected  Sion's  daughters  with  like  heat ; 

Whose  wanton  passions  in  the  sacred  porch 

Ezekiel  saw,  when,  by  the  vision  led, 

His  eye  surveyed  the  dark  idolatries 

Of  alienated  Judah.     Next  came  one 

Who  mourned  in  earnest  when  the  captive  ark 

Maimed  his  brute  image,  head  and  hands  lopped  off 

In  his  own  temple,  on  the  grunsel  edge, 

Where  he  fell  flat,  and  shamed  his  worshipers  : 

Dagon  his  name,  sea-monster,  —  upward  man, 

And  downward  fish ;  yet  had  his  temple  high 

Reared  in  Azotus,  dreaded  through  the  coast 

Of  Palestine,  in  Gath  and  Ascalon 

And  Accaron,  and  Gaza's  frontier  bounds. 

Him  followed  Rimmon,  whose  delightful  seat 

Was  fair  Damascus,  on  the  fertile  banks 

Of  Abana  and  Pharpar,  lucid  streams. 

He  also  'gainst  the  house  of  God  was  bold  : 

A  leper  once  he  lost,  and  gained  a  king ; 

Ahaz  his  sottish  conqueror,  whom  he  drew 

God's  altar  to  disparage  and  displace 

For  one  of  Syrian  mode,  whereon  to  burn 

His  odious  offerings,  and  adore  the  gods 

Whom  he  had  vanquished.     After  these  appeared 

A  crew,  who,  under  names  of  old  renown,  — 

Osiris,  Iris,  Orus,  and  their  train,  — 


558  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

With  monstrous  shapes  and  sorceries  abused 
Fanatic  Egypt  and  her  priests  to  seek 
Their  wandering  gods  disguised  in  brutish  forms 
Rather  than  human. 


OTHER   DISTINGUISHED    AUTHORS    OP 
MILTON'S   TIME. 

THOMAS  FULLER.  — 1608-1661.  Witty  divine.  "  Church  History  of  Britain ;  " 
"Worthies  of  England;"  essays,  tracts,  and  sermons. 

JEREMY  TAYLOR.  — 1613-1667.    Brilliant  writer  of  sermons  and  essays. 

EDWARD  HYDE  (Earl  of  Clarendon).  — 1608-1674.  "  History  of  the  Rebellion," 
and  other  works. 

Sir  WILLIAM  DAVENANT.  — 1605-1668.    Succeeded  Ben  Jouson  as  laureate. 

EDMUND  WALLER.  — 1605-1687.    Poet  and  politician. 

HENRY  VAUGHN.  — 1621-1695,  Devotional  poem*.  Thoma«,  his  brother,  wrote 
books  on  alchemy. 

Sir  JOHN  DENHAM.  — 1815  -1668.    "  Cooper's  Hill," .a  local  poem. 

RICHARD  LOVELACE.  — 1618-1658.    Odes  and  songs. 

ABRAHAM  COWLEY.  — 1618-1667.  "Miscellanies,"  "Pindaric  Odes,"  and 
"Love  Verses." 

WILLIAM  CHAMBERLAYNE.  — 1619-1689.     "Love's  Victory,"  " Pharonnida." 

CIIAULES  COTTOX.  — 1630  -16S7.    Witty  poet-friend  of  Izaak  Walton. 

JOHN  GAUDEN. — 1605-1662.  "Eikon  Basilika;  or,  Portraiture  of  his  Most 
Sacred  Majesty,  Charles  I.,  in  his  Solitude  and  Sufferings." 

Sir  THOMAS  BROWNE.  — 1605-1682.  "  Religio  Medici,"  "  Pseudodoxia  Epi- 
deniica." 

RALPH  CUDWORTH.  — 1617-1688.  "  The  True  Intellectual  System  of  the  Uni- 
verse," '•  Eternal  and  Immutable  Morality,"  and  others. 

JOHN  EVELYN.  — 1620-1706.     "  Sylva,"  "  Tessa,"  and  "  Diary." 

ANDREW  MARVEL.  — 1620-1678.  "  Popery  and  Arbitrary  Government  in  Eng- 
land." The  friend  of  Milton. 

ALGERNON  SIDNEY.  —  1621-1G83.  "Discourses  on  Government,"  in  opposition 
to  the  doctrine  of  the  divine  right  of  kings. 

ROBERT  BOYLE.  — 1627-1691.  Distinguished  philosopher.  "  Occasional  Reflec- 
tions on  Several  Subjects." 

Sir  WILLIAM  TEMPLE.  — 1628-1699.  Accomplished  diplomatist,  and  elegant 
writer  of  the  English  language.  "  Essays." 

JOHN  RAY.  — 1628-1705.  "  General  History  of  Plants,"  and  "Wisdom  of  God 
in  the  Works  of  Creation." 

JOHN  TILLOTSON.— 1630-1694.     "Sermons." 

ISAAC  BARROW.  — 1630-1677.  Mathematical  works  in  Latin,  and  theological  in 
English. 

SAMUEL  PEPYS. — Died  1703.     "Diary." 

ROBERT  SOUTH.  — 1633  -1716.  Witty  divine ;  fierce  upholder  of  the  doctrines  of 
passive  obedience  and  divine  right. 


FRANCIS  BACON.  559 


FRANCIS    BACON-,  VISCOUNT    ST.  ALBAN'S. 


1561-1626. 


His  u  Essays"  and  "  Advancement  of  Learning"  were  written  in  English.  The 
"Novum  Organum,"  his  greatest  work,  explains  the  inductive  method  of  reasoning, 
—  that  is,  from  particular  facts  to  general  laws,  —  and  for  the  first  time  places  nil 
philosophy  upon  its  true  basis.  Upon  this  work,  which  was  a  part  of  a  magnificent 
inexecuted  plan,  rests  his  immortal  fame. 


STUDIES. 

STUDIES  serve  for  delight,  for  ornament,  and  for  ability.  Their 
chief  use  for  delight  is  in  privateness  and  retiring,  for  ornament 
is  in  discourse,  and  for  ability  is  in  the  judgment  and  disposition 
of  business :  for  expert  men  can  execute,  and  perhaps  judge  of 
particulars,  one  by  one ;  but  the  general  counsels,  and  the  plots 
and  marshaling  of  affairs,  come  best  from  those  that  are  learned. 
To  spend  too  much  time  in  studies  is  sloth ;  to  use  them  too 
much  for  ornament  is  affectation ;  to  make  judgment  wholly  by 
their  rules  is  the  humor  of  a  seholar.  They  perfect  Nature,  and 
are  perfected  by  experience:  for  natural  abilities  are  like  natural 
plants,  that  need  pruning  by  study;  and  studies  themselves  do 
give  forth  directions  too  much  at  large,  except  they  be  bounded  in 
by  experience.  Crafty  men  contemn  studies,  simple  men  admire 
them,  and  wise  men  use  them ;  for  they  teach  not  their  own  use: 
but  that  is  a  wisdom  without  them,  and  above  them,  won  by  ob- 
servation. Read  not.  to  contradict  and  confute,  nor  to  believe  and 
take  for  granted,  nor  to  find  talk  and  discourse,  but  to  weigh  and 
consider.  Some  books  are  to  be  tasted,  others  to  be  swallowed, 
and  some  few  to  be  chewed  and  digested  :  that  is,  some  books  are 
to  be  read  only  in  parts  ;  others  to  be  read,  but  not  curiously ;  and 
some  few  to  be  read  wholly,  and  with  diligence  and  attention. 
Some  books  also  may  be  read  by  deputy,  and  extracts  made  of 
them  by  others :  but  that  would  be  only  in  the  less  important 
arguments,  and  the  meaner  sort  of  books ;  else  distilled  books  are, 
like  common  distilled  waters,  flashy  things.  Reading  maketh  a 
full  man,  conference  a  ready  man,  and  writing  an  exact  man  : 
and  therefore,  if  a  man  write  little,  he  had  need  have  a  great 
memory ;  if  he  confer  little,  he  had  need  have  a  present  wit ;  and, 
if  he  read  little,  he  had  need  have  much  cunning,  to  seem  to 
know  that  he  doth  not. 


560  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


OF   BOLDNESS. 

IT  is  a  trivial  grammar-school  text,  but  yet  worthy  a  wise  man's 
consideration.  The  question  was  asked  of  Demosthenes,  "  What 
is  the  chief  part  of  an  orator?  "  He  answered,  "Action."  What 
next?  "Action."  What  next  again?  "Action."  He  said  it 
that  knew  it  best,  and  had  by  nature  himself  no  advantage  in 
that  he  commended.  A  strange  thing,  that  that  part  of  an 
orator  which  is  but  superficial,  and  rather  the  virtue  of  a  player, 
should  be  placed  so  high  above  those  other  noble  parts  of  inven- 
tion, elocution,  and  the  rest ;  nay,  almost  alone,  as  if  it  were  all 
in  all!  But  the  reason  is  plain:  there  is  in  human  nature  gener- 
ally more  of  the  fool  than  of  the  wise ;  and  therefore  those  facul- 
ties by  which  the  foolish  part  of  men's  minds  is  taken  are  most 
potent.  Wonderful  like  is  the  case  of  boldness  in  civil  business. 
What  first?  "Boldness."  What  second  and  third?  "'Bold- 
ness." And  yet  boldness  is  a  child  of  ignorance  and  baseness, 
far  inferior  to  other  parts ;  but,  nevertheless,  it  doth  fascinate,  and 
bind  hand  and  foot,  those  that  are  either  shallow  in  judgment,  or 
weak  in  courage,  which  are  the  greatest  part ;  yea,  and  prevaileth 
with  wise  men  at  weak  times :  therefore  we  see  it  hath  done  won- 
ders in  popular  states,  but  with  senates  and  princes  less ;  and 
more  ever  upon  the  first  entrance  of  bold  persons  into  action 
than  soon  after;  for  boldness  is  an  ill  keeper  of  promise.  Surely, 
as  there  are  mountebanks  for  the  natural  body,  so  are  there 
mountebanks  for  the  politic  body,  —  men  that  undertake  great 
cures,  and  perhaps  have  been  lucky  in  two  or  three  experiments, 
but  want  the  grounds  of  science,  and  therefore  can  not  hold  out. 
Xay,  you  shall  see  a  bold  fellow  many  times  do  Mahomet's  miracle. 
Mahomet  made  the  people  believe  that  he  would  make  the  hill 
come  to  him,  and  from  the  top  of  it  offer  up  his  prayers  for  the 
observers  of  his  law.  The  people  assembled.  Mahomet  called  the 
hill  to  come  to  him  again.and  again  ;  and,  when  the  hill  stood  still, 
he  was  never  a  whit  abashed,  but  said,  "  If  the  hill  will  not  come 
to  Mahomet,  Mahomet  will  go  to  the  hill."  So  these  men,  when  they 
have  promised  great  matters,  and  failed  most  shamefully,  yet  (if 
they  have  the  perfection  of  boldness)  they  will  but  slight  it  over, 
and  make  a  turn,  and  no  more  ado.  Certainly,  to  men  of  great 
judgment,  bold  persons  are  sport  to  behold ;  nay,  and  to  the  vulgar, 
also,  boldness  hath  somewhat  of  the  ridiculous :  for,  if  absurdity 
be  the  subject  of  laughter,  doubt  you  not  that  great  boldness  is  sel- 
dom without  some  absurdity.  Especially  it  is  a  sport  to  see  when 
a  bold  fellow  is  out  of  countenance,  for  that  puts  his  face  into  a 
most  shrunken  and  wooden  posture,  as  needs  it  must :  for  in  hash- 
fulness  the  spirits  do  a  little  and  come ;  but  with  bold  men,  upon 


FRANCIS   BACON.  561 

like  occasion,  they  stand  at  a  stay,  like  a  stale  at  chess,  where  it  is 
110  mate,  but  yet  the  game  can  not  stir.  But  this  last  were  fitter 
for  a  satire  than  for  a  serious  observation.  This  is  well  to  be 
weighed,  that  boldness  is  ever  blind ;  for  it  seeth  not  dangers  and 
inconveniences:  therefore  it  is  ill  in  counsel,  good  in  execution. 
So  that  the  right  use  of  bold  persons  is,  that  they  never  command 
in  chief,  but  be  seconds,  and  under  the  direction  of  others ;  for  in 
counsel  it  is  good  to  see  dangers,  and  in  execution  not  to  see  them 
except  they  be  very  great. 


OF    GOODNESS,   AND    GOODNESS    OF  NATURE. 

I  TAKE  goodness  in  this  sense,  —  the  affecting  of  the  weal  of 
men,  which  is  that  the  Grecians  call  plulanthropia ;  and  the 
word  "  humanity,"  as  it  is  used,  is  a  little  too  light  to  express  it. 
Goodness  I  call  the  habit;  and  goodness  of  nature,  the  inclina- 
tion. This,  of  all  virtues  and  dignities  of  the  mind,  is  the 
greatest,  being  the  character  of  the  Deity ;  and  without  it  man  is 
a  busy,  mischievous,  wretched  thing,  no  better  than  a  kind  of 
vermin.  Goodness  answers  to  the  theological  virtue  charity,  and 
admits  no  excess  but  error.  The  desire  of  power  in  excess  caused 
the  angels  to  fall ;  the  desire  of  knowledge  in  excess  caused  man 
to  fall:  but  in  charity  there  is  no  excess  ;  neither  can  angel  or  man 
come  in  danger  by  it.  The  inclination  to  goodness  is  imprinted 
deeply  in  the  nature  of  man,  insomuch  that,  if  it  issue  not  towards 
men,  it  will  take  unto  other  living  creatures ;  as  it  is  seen  in  the 
Turks,  a  cruel  people,  who  nevertheless  are  kind  to  beasts,  and 
give  alms  to  dogs  and  birds ;  insomuch  as,  Bitsbechius  reporteth,  a 
Christian  boy  in  Constantinople  had  liked  to  have  been  stoned  for 
gagging,  in  a  waggishness,  a  long-billed  fowl.  Errors,  indeed,  in 
this  virtue  of  goodness  or  .charity,  maybe  committed.  The  Ital- 
ians have  an  ungracious  proverb,  Tanto  buon,  che  val  niente, — 
"  So  good,  that  he  is  good  for  nothing."  And  one  of  the  doctors 
of  Italy,  Nicholas  Machiavel,  had  the  confidence  to  put  in  writing, 
almost  in  plain  terms,  "  That  the  Christian  faith  had  given  up 
good  men  in  prey  to  those  that  are  tyrannical  and  unjust;"  which 
he  spake  because,  indeed,  there  was  never  law  or  sect  or  opinion 
did  so  much  magnify  goodness  as  the  Christian  religion  doth  :  it 
is  good  to  take  knowledge  of  the  errors  of  a  habit  so  excellent. 
Seek  the  good  of  other  men,  but  be  not  in  bondage  to  their  faces 
or  fancies ;  for  that  is  but  facility  or  softness  which  taketh  'an 
honest  mind  prisoner.  Neither  give  thou  ^^Esop's  cock  a  gem, 
who  would  be  better  pleased  and  happier  if  he  had  a  barleycorn. 
The  example  of  God  teacheth  the  lesson  truly :  "  He  sendeth  his 


X562  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

rain,  and  maketh  his  sun  to  shine,  upon  the  just  and  unjust;" 
but  he  doth  not  rain  wealth,  nor  shine  honor  and  virtues,  upon 
men  equally.  Common  benefits  are  to  be  communicated  with  all. 
but  peculiar  benefits  with  choice.  And  beware  how,  in  making 
the  portraiture,  thou  breakest  the  pattern ;  for  divinity  maketh 
the  love  of  ourselves  the  pattern,  the  love  of  our  neighbors 
but  the  portraiture.  "  Sell  all  thou  hast,  and  give  it  to  the  poor, 
and  follow  me : "  but  sell  not  all  thou  hast,  except  thou  come  and 
follow  me,  —  that  is,  except  thou  have  a  vocation  wherein  thou 
mayest  do  as  much  good  with  little  means  as  with  great ;  for 
otherwise,  in  feeding  the  streams,  thou  driest  the  fountain. 
Neither  is  there  only  a  habit  of  goodness  directed  by  right 
reason :  but  there  is  in  some  men,  even  in  nature,  a  disposition 
toward  it ;  as,  on  the  other  side,  there  is  a  natural  malignity ;  for 
there  be  that  in  their  nature  do  not  affect  the  good  of  others. 
The  lighter  sort  of  malignity  turneth  but  to  a  crossness  or  froward- 
ness,  or  aptness  to  oppose,  or  difficileness,  or  the  like ;  but  the 
deeper  sort  to  envy  and  mere  mischief.  Such  men,  in  other  men's 
calamities,  are,  as  it  were,  in  season,  and  are  ever  on  the  loading 
part;  not  so  good  as  the  dogs  that  licked  Lazarus'  sores,  but 
like  flies  that  are  still  buzzing  upon  any  thing  that  is  raw;  mis- 
anthropi,  that  make  it  their  practice  to  bring  men  to  the  bough, 
and  yet  have  never  a  tree  for  the  purpose  in  their  gardens,  as 
Timon  had.  Such  dispositions  are  the  very  errors  of  human 
nature :  and  yet  they  are  the  fittest  timber  to  make  great  politics 
of;  like  to  knee-timber,  that  is  good  for  ships  that  are  ordained 
to  be  tossed,  but  not  for  building  houses  that  shall  stand  firm. 
The  parts  and  signs  of  goodness  are  many.  If  a  man  be  gracious 
and  courteous  to  strangers,  it  shows  he  is  a  citizen  of  the  world, 
and  that  his  heart  is  no  island  cut  off  from  other  lands,  but  a 
continent  that  joins  to  them.  If  he  be  compassionate  towards 
the  afflictions  of  others,  it  shows  that  his  heart  is  like  the  noble 
tree  that  is  wounded  itself  when  it  gives  the  balm.  If  he  easily 
pardons  and  remits  offenses,  it  shows  that  his  mind  is  planted 
above  injuries,  so  that  he  can  not  be  shot.  If  he  be  thankful  for 
small  benefits,  it  shows  that  he  weighs  men's  minds,  and  not 
their  trash.  But,  above  all,  if  he  have  St.  Paul's  perfection,  that 
he  would  wish  to  be  anathema  from  Christ  for  the  salvation  of 
his  brethren,  it  shows  much  of  a  divine  nature,  and  a  kind  of 
conformity  with  Christ  himself. 


THE  BIBLE.  563 


THE    BIBLE. 

The  pure  and  powerful  English  of  the  translations  of  the  Old  and  New  Tesr.-i- 
ment,  setting  aside  the  sacred  character  even  of  the  volume  as  the  word  of  God,  U 
sufficient  of  itself  to  induce  the  faithful  study  of  it  by  every  pupil.  The  most  im- 
portant of  the  earlier  versions  are,  — 

Coverdale's,  1535.  The  Geneva  Bible,  1560. 

Mathewe's,  1537.  The  Bishops',  1568. 

Cranmer's,  1539.  The  Douny,  1582-1610. 

Taverner's,  1539.  King  James's,  1611. 

King  James's  version  is  the  work  of  forty-seven  bishops,  out  of  fifty-four  appointed 
to  the  task  by  the  king. 


DA  VID. 
PSALM   XXIV.  —  A   PSALM    OF   DAVID. 

1.  THE  earth  is  the  Lord's,  and  the  fullness  thereof;  the  world, 
and  they  that  dwell  therein. 

2.  For  he  hath  founded  it  upon  the  seas,  and  established  it 
upon  the  floods. 

3.  Who  shall  ascend  into  the  hill  of  the  LORD  ?  or  who  shall 
stand  in  his  holy  place  ? 

4.  He  that  hath  clean  hands  and  a  pure  heart ;  who  hath  not 
lifted  up  his  soul  unto  vanity,  nor  sworn  deceitfully. 

5.  He  shall  receive  the  blessing  from  the  LORD,  and  righteous- 
ness from  the  God  of  his  salvation. 

6.  This  is  the  generation  of  them  that  seek  him;  that  seek 
thy  face,  0  Jacob  ! 

7.  Lift  up  your  heads  O  ye  gates !  and  be  ye  lift  up,  ye  ever- 
lasting doors ;  and  the  King  of  glory  shall  come  in. 

8.  Who  is  this  King  of  glory  ?    The  LORD  strong  and  mighty, 
the  LORD  mighty  in  battle. 

9.  Lift  up  your  heads,  0  ye  gates !  even  lift  them  up,  ye  ever- 
lasting doors ;  and  the  King  of  glory  shall  come  in. 

10.  Who  is  this  King  of  glory  ?    The  LORD  of  hosts,  he  is  the 
King  of  glory. 

ISAIAH, 

CHAPTER    LV. 

1.  Ho,  every  one  that  thirsteth,  come  ye  to  the  waters,  and  he 
that  hath  no  money:  come  ye,  buy  and  eat;  yea,  come,  buy  wine 
and  milk  without  money  and  without  price. 

2.  Wherefore  do  ye  spend  money  for  that  which  is  not  bread, 
and  your  labor  fqr  tljat  which  satisfteth  not  ?    Hearken  diligently 


5C4  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

unto  me,  and  eat  ye  that  which  is  good,  and  let  your  soul  delight 
itself  in  fatness. 

3.  Incline  your  ear,  and  come  unto  me  ;  hear,  and  your  soul  shall 
live  ;  and  I  \vill  make  an  everlasting  covenant  with  you,  even  the 
sure  mercies  of  David. 

4.  Behold,  I  have  given  him  for  a  witness  to  the  people,  a  leader 
and  commander  to  the  people. 

5.  Behold,  thou  shalt  call  a  nation  that  thou  knowest  not,  and 
nations  that  knew  not  thee  shall  run  unto  thee,  because  of  the 
LOUD  thy  God,  and  for  the  Holy  One  of  Israel ;  for  he  hath 
glorified  thee. 

6.  Seek  ye  the  LORD  while  he  may  be  found  j  call  ye  upon  him 
while  he  is  near. 

7.  Let  the  wicked  forsake  his  way,  and  the  unrighteous  man 
his  thoughts:   and  let  him  return  unto   the  LORD,  and  he  will 
have  mercy  upon  him ;  and  to  our  God,  for  he  will  abundantly 
pardon. 

8.  For  my  thoughts  are  not  your  thoughts,  neither  are  your 
ways  my  ways,  saith  the  LORD. 

9.  For  as  the  heavens  are  higher  than  the  earth,  so  are  my 
ways    higher   than    your  ways,    and    my   thoughts   than    your 
thoughts. 

10.  For  as  the  rain  cometh  down,  and  the  snow  from  heaven, 
and  returneth  not  thither,  but  watereth  the  earth,  and  maketh  it 
bring  forth  and  bud,  that  it  may  give  seed  to  the  sower,  and  bread 
to  the  eater : 

11.  So  shall  my  word  be  that  goeth  forth  out  of  my  mouth  :  it 
shall  not  return   unto  me  void;    but   it    shall   accomplish    that 
which  I  please,  and  it  shall  prosper  in  the  thing  whereto  I  sent 
it. 

12.  For  ye  shall  go  out  with  joy,  and  be  led  forth  with  peace : 
the  mountains  and  the  hills  shall   break  forth  before  you  into 
singing,  and  all  the  trees  of  the  field  shall  clap  their  hands. 

13.  Instead  of  the  thorn  shall  come  up  the  fir-tree,  and  instead 
of  the  brier  shall  come  up  the  myrtle-tree ;  and  it  shall  be  to 
the  LORD  for  a  name,  for  an  everlasting  sign  that  shall  not  be 
cut  off. 


ST.  PAUL. 

I   CORIXTHIAXS,    CHAP.    XIII. 

1.  THOUGH  I  speak  with  the  tongues  of  men  and  of  angels, 
and  have  not  charity,  I  am  become  as  sounding  brass  or  a  tinkling 
cymbal. 

2.  And  though  I  Jiave  the  gift  of  prophecy,  and  understand  all 


WILLIAM   SHAKSPEARE.  505 

mysteries  and  all  knowledge,  and  though  I  have  all  faith,  so  that 
I  could  remove  mountains,  and  have  not  charity,  I  am  nothing. 

3.  And  though  I  bestow  all  my  goods  to  feed  the  poor,  and 
though  I  give  my  body  to  be  burned,  and  have  not  charity,  it 
profiteth  me  nothing. 

4.  Charity  suffereth  long,  and  is  kind ;  charity  envieth  not ; 
charity  vaunteth  not  itself,  is  not  puffed  up, 

5.  Doth  not  behave  itself  unseemly,  seeketh  not  her  own,  is 
not  easily  provoked,  thinketh  no  evil ; 

6.  Kejoiceth  not  in  iniquity,  but  rejoiceth  in  the  truth  ; 

7.  Beareth  all  things,  believeth  all  things,  hopeth  all  things, 
endure th  all  things. 

8.  Charity  never  faileth  :  but  whether  there  be  prophecies,  they 
shall  fail;  whether  there  be  tongues,  they  shall  cease;  whether 
there  be  knowledge,  it  shall  vanish  away. 

9.  For  we  know  in  part,  and  we  prophesy  in  part. 

10.  But  when  that  which  is  perfect  is  come,  then  that  which  is 
in  part  shall  be  done  away. 

11.  When  I  was  a  child,  I  spake  as  a  child,  I  understood  as  a 
child,  I  thought  as  a  child;  but,  when  I  became  a  man,  I  put 
away  childish  things. 

12.  For  now  we  see  through  a  glass,  darkly ;  but  then  face  to 
face  :  now  I  know  in  part ;  but  then  shall  I  know  even  as  also  I 
am  known. 

13.  And  now  abideth  faith,  hope,  charity,  these  three  ;  but  the 
greatest  of  these  is  charity. 


WILLIAM    SHAKSPEARE. 

1564-1616. 

Author  of  thirty-seven  plays,  several  minor  poems,  and  many  sonnets.  His  best- 
known  plays  are  "Hamlet,"  "Macbeth,"  "King  Lear,"  "Romeo  and  Juliet,"  and 
"Othello,"  tragedies;  "The  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor,"  "Midsummer  Night's 
Dream,"  "  As  You  Like  It,"  and  "  Merchant  of  Venice,"  comedies;  "  Richard  III.," 
"  Coriolanus,"  "Julius  Csesar,"  "  Henry  IV.,"  and  "Henry  VIII.,"  historical  plays. 
A  copy  of  his  works,  with  biographical  sketch,  can  be  bought  for  a  very  small  sum, 
and  should  be  in  the  hands  of  every  student  of  English  literature.  We'select  "Ju- 
lius Caesar"  to  represent  this  greatest  of  English  poets;  for,  as  Dr.  Johnson  says, 
"  He  that  tries  to  recommend  him  by  select  quotations  will  succeed  like  the  pedant 
in  Hierocles,  who,  when  he  offered  his  house  to  snle,  carried  a  brick  in  his  pocket 
as  a  specimen."  If  properlv  studied,  with  the  help  of  "  Webster's  Unabridged,"  no 
notes  are  necessary.  A  copy  of  Craik's  "Julius  Caesar"  with  notes,  or  the  Ameri- 
can edition  of  it  by  Rolfe,  might  be  of  service  to  teacher  and  class. 


566 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


JULIUS    CAESAR. 

PERSONS    REPRESENTED. 


JULIUS  OESAR. 

OCTAVIUS  C.ESAR,    1          Triumvirs 
MARCUS  ANTOXIUS,  [  after  the  death  of 
M.  JEyiiL.  LEPIUUS,  J      Julius  Coesar. 
CICERO,  PUBLIUS,  POPILIUS  LENA,  Sen- 

atoi-s. 

MARCUS  BRUTUS, 
CASSIUS, 
(  'ASCA, 
'PREBONIUS, 
LIGARIUS, 
DECIUS  BKUTUS, 
METELLUS  CIMBER, 
CINNA, 

FLAVIUS  and  MARULLUS,   Tribunes. 
ARTEMIDORUS,  a  Sophist  of  Cnidos. 


Conspirators 

against  Julius 

CtBsar. 


A  SOOTHSAYER. 

CIXXA,  a  Poet.  —  Another  Poet. 

LUCILIUS,  TITIXIUS,  MESSALA,  young 
CATO,  and  VOLUMMUS,  Friends  to 
Brutus  and  Cassias. 

VARRO,  CLITUS,  CLAUDIUS,  STRATO, 
Lucius,  DARDAXIUS,  Servants  to  Bru- 
tus. 

PIXDARUS,  Servant  to  Cassias. 


CALPHURXIA,  Wife  to  Caesar. 
PORTIA,  Wife  to  Brutus. 

Senators,  Citizens,   Guards,  Attendants, 
&c. 


SCEXE,  during  a  great  part  of  the  play,  at  Rome  ;  afterwards  at  Sardis,  and  near 


ACT  I. 

SCEXE  I.  —Rome.    A  Street. 
Enter  FLAVIUS,  MARULLUS,  and  a  rabble  of  CITIZENS. 

Flav.  Hence  !  home,  you  idle  creatures  !  get  you  home  ! 
Is  this  a  holiday  ?     What  !  know  you  not, 
Being  mechanical,  you  ought  not  walk 
Upon  a  laboring-day  without  the  sign 
Of  your  profession  ?     Speak  !  what  trade  art  thou  ? 

1  Cit.  Why,  sir,  a  carpenter.  , 
Mar.  Where  is  thy  leather  apron  and  thy  rule  ? 

What  dost  thou  with  thy  best  apparel  on  V 
You,  sir,  —  what  trade  are  you  : 

2  Cit.  Truly,  sir,  in  respect  of  a  fine  workman,  I  am  but,  as  you  would 
say,  a  cobbler. 

Mnr.  But  what  trade  art  thou  ?     Answer  me  directly. 

2  Cit.  A  trade,  sir,  that,  I  hope,  I  may  use  with  a  safe  conscience  ;  which 
is  indeed,  sir,  a  mender  of  bad  soles. 

Mar.  What  trade,  thou  knave?  thou  naughty  knave,  what  trade  ? 

2  Cit.  Nay,  I  beseech  you,  sir,  be  not  out  with  me  ;  yet  if  you  be  out, 
sir,  I  can  mend  you. 

Mar.  What  mean'st  thou  by  that  ?     Mend  me,  thou  saucy  fellow  ? 

2  Cit.  Why,  sir,  cobble  you* 

Flav.  Thou  art  a  cobbler,  art  thou  ? 

2  Cit.  Truly,  sir,  all  that  I  live  by  is  with  the  awl.  I  meddle  with  no 
tradesman's  matters,  nor  women's  matters,  but  with  awl.  I  am  indeed, 
sir,  a  surgeon  to  old  shoes  :  when  they  are  in  great  danger,  I  recover 
them.  As  proper  men  as  ever  trod  upon  neat's  leather  have  gone  upon 
my  handiwork. 

Flav.  But  wherefore  art  not  in  thy  shop  to-day  ? 
Why  dost  thou  lead  these  men  about  the  streets? 

2  Cit.  Truly,  sir,  to  wear  out  their  shoes,  to  {ret  myself  into  more  work. 
But  indeed,  sir,  we  make  holiday  to  see  Caesar,  and  to  rejoice  in  his 
triumph. 


WILLIAM  SHAKSPEARE.  5C7 

Mar.  Wherefore  rejoice  ?     What  conquest  brings  he  home  ? 
What  tributaries  follow  him  to  Rome 
To  grace  in  captive  bonds  his  chariot-wheels  ? 
You  blocks,  you  stones,  you  worse  than  senseless  things  I 
O  you  hard  hearts,  you  cruel  men  of  Rome ! 
Kiiew  you  not  Pompey  ?     Many  a  time  and  oft 
Have  you  climbed  up  to  walls  and  battlements, 
To  towers  and  windows,  yea,  to  chimney-tops, 
Your  infants  in  your  arms,  and  there  have  sat 
The  livelong  day,  with  patient  expectation, 
To  see  great  Pompey  pass  the  streets' of  Rome ; 
And,  when  you  saw  his  chariot  but  appear, 
Have  you  not  made  a  universal  shout, 
That  Tiber  trembled  underneath  her  banks 
To  hear  the  replication  of  your  sounds 
Made  in  her  concave  shores  ? 
And  do  you  now  put  on  your  best  attire  ? 
And  do  you  now  cull  out  a  holiday  ? 
And  do  you  now  strew  flowers  in  his  way 
That  comes  in  triumph  over  Pompey's  blood  ? 
Begone ! 

Run  to  your  houses,  fall  upon  your  knees, 
Pray  to  the  gods  to  intermit  the  plague 
That  needs  must  light  on  this  ingratitude. 

Flav.  Go,  go,  good  countrymen,  and  for  this  fault 
Assemble  all  the  poor  men  of  your  sort; 
Draw  them  to  Tiber  banks,  and  weep  your  tears 
Into  the  channel  till  the  lowest  stream 

Do  kiss  the  most  exalted  shores  of  all.  \_Exeuri  CITIZENS. 

See  whe'r  their  basest  metal  be  not  moved : 
They  vanish  tongue-tied  in  their  guiltiness. 
Go  you  down  that  way  towards  the  Capitol : 
This  way  will  I.     Disrobe  the  images 
If  you  do  find  them  decked  with  ceremonies. 

Mar.  May  we  do  so? 
Yon  know  it  is  the  feast  of  Lupercal. 

Ftav.  It  is  no  matter :  let  no  images 
Be  hung  with  Caesar's  trophies.     I'll  about, 
And  drive  away  the  vulgar  from  the  streets  : 
So  do  you  too,  where  you  perceive  them  thick. 
These  growing  feathers  plucked  from  Caesar's  wing 
Will  make  him  fly  an  ordinary  pitch, 
Who  else  would  soar  above  the  view  of  men, 
And  keep  us  all  in  servile  fearfulness.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.  —  The  Same.    A  Public  Place. 

Enter  in  procession,  with  music,  CAESAR,  ANTONY,  for  the  course;   CAU'HUKHIA, 
PORTIA,  DECIUS,  CICERO,  BRUTUS,  CASSIUS,  ami  CASCA;  a  great  cnticdJUlotuiny, 
anumg  them  a  SOOTHSAYER. 
CVe.<? .   C  n  1  ph  urn  i  a ! 

Casca.  Peace,  ho  !     Cassar  speaks.  [Music  ceases. 

Goes.  Calphurniii! 


568  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Cal.  Here,  my  lord. 

Cces.  Stand  you  directly  in  Antonius'  way 
When  he  doth  run  his  course.  —  Antonius  ! 

Ant.  Caesar,  my  lord. 

Cces.  Forget  not,  in  your  speed,  Antouius, 
To  touch  Calphurnia ;  for  our  elders  say, 
The  barren,  touched  in  this  holy  chase, 
Shake  off  their  sterile  curse. 

A  nt.  I  shall  remember : 
When  Caesar  says  "  Do  this"  it  is  performed. 

Cces.  Set  on,  and  leave  no  ceremony  out.  [Music. 

Sooth.  Caesar ! 

Cces.  Ha!  who  calls? 

Caxca.  Bid  every  noise  be  still.    Peace  yet  again.  [Music  ceases. 

Cces.  Who  is  it  in  the  press  that  calls  on  me  ? 
I  hear  a  tongue,  shriller  than  all  the  music, 
Cry  "  Caesar !  "     Speak  :  Caesar  is  turned  to  hear. 

Sooth.  Beware  the  ides  of  March. 

Cces.   What  man  is  that  ? 

Bru.  A  soothsayer  bids  you  beware  the  ides  of  March. 

CCES.  Set  him  before  me :  let  me  see  his  face. 

Cas.  Fellow,  come  from  the  throng  :  look  upon  Caesar. 

Cces.  What  say'st  thou  to  me  now  ?     Speak  once  again. 

Sooth.  Beware  the  ides  of  March. 

Cces.  He  is  a  dreamer  :  let  us  leave  him.    Pass. 

[Sennet.     Exeunt  all  but  BRUTUS  and  CASSIUS. 

Cas.  Will  you  go  see  the  order  of  the  course  ? 

Bru.  Not  I. 

Cas.  I  pray  you,  do. 

Bru.  I  am  not  gamesome  :  I  do  lack  some  part 
Of  that  quick  spirit  that  is  in  Antony. 
Let  me  not  hinder,  Cassius,  your  desires : 
I'll  leave  you. 

Cas.  Brutus,  I  do  observe  you  now  of  late : 
I  have  not  from  your  eyes  that  gentleness 
And  show  of  love  as  I  was  wont  to  have  : 
You  bear  too  stubborn  and  too  strange  a  hand 
Over  your  friend  that  loves  you. 

Bru.  Cassius, 

Be  not  deceived  :  if  I  have  veiled  my  look, 
I  turn  the  trouble  of  my  countenance 
Merely  upon  myself.     Vexed  I  am 
Of  late  with  passions  of  some  difference, 
Conceptions  only  proper  to  myself, 
Which  give  some  soil,  perhaps,  to  my  behaviors ; 
But  let  not  therefore  my  good  friends  be  grieved,  ' 
(Among  which  number,  Cassius,  be  you  one,) 
Nor  construe  any  further  my  neglect, 
Than  that  poor  Brutus,  with  himself  at  war, 
Forgets  the  shows  of  love  to  other  men. 

Cas.  Then,  Brutus,  I  have  much  mistook  your  passion, 
By  means  whereof  this  breast  of  mine  hath  buried 


WILLIAM  SIIAKSPEARE.  6C9 

Thoughts  of  great  value,  worthy  cogitations. 
Tell  me,  good  Brutus,  can  you  see  your  face  ? 

Bru.  No,  Cassius ;  lor  the  eye  sees  not  itself 
But  by  reflection,  by  some  other  things. 

Cas.  'Tis  just; 

And  it  is  very  much  lamented,  Brutus, 
That  you  have  no  such  mirrors  as  will  turn 
Your  hidden  worthiness  into  your  eye, 
That  you  might  see  your  shadow.     I  have  heard, 
Where  many  of  the  best  respect  in  Rome 
(Except  immortal  Caesar),  speaking  of  Brutus, 
And  groaning  underneath  this  age's  yoke, 
Have  wished  that  noble  Brutus  had  his  eyes. 

Bru.  Into  what  dangers  would  you  lead  me,  Cassius, 
That  you  would  have  me  seek  into  myself 
For  that  which  is  not  in  me  ? 

Cas.  Therefore,  good  Brutus,  be  prepared  to  hear ; 
And,  since  you  know  you  can  not  see  yourself 
So  well  as  by  reflection,  I,  your  glass, 
Will  modestly  discover  to  yourself 
That  of  yourself  which  you  yet  know  not  of. 
And  be  not  jealous  of  me,  gentle  Brutus  : 
Were  I  a  common  laugher,  or  did  use 
To  stale  with  ordinary  oaths  iny  love 
To  every  new  protester ;  if  you  know 
That  I  do  fawn  on  men,  and  hug  them  hard, 
And  after  scandal  them ;  or  if  you  know 
That  I  profess  myself  in  banqueting 
To  all  the  rout,  —  then  hold  me  dangerous.  [Flourish  and  shout. 

Bru.  What  means  this  shouting?     I  do  fear  the  people 
Choose  Caesar  for  their  king. 

Cas.  Ay,  do  you  fear  it  ? 
Then  must  I  think  you  would  not  have  it  PO. 

Bru.  I  would  not,  Cassius ;  yet  I  love  him  well. 
But  wherefore  do  you  hold  me  here  so  long  ? 
What  is  it  that  you  would  impart  to  me  ? 
If  it  be  aught  toward  the  general  good, 
Set  honor  in  one  eye,  and  death  i'  the  other, 
And  I  will  look  on  both  indifferently ; 
For  let  the  gods  so  speed  me  as  I  love 
The  name  of  honor  more  than  I  fear  death. 

Cas.  I  know  that  virtue  to  be  in  you,  Brutus, 
As  well  as  I  do  know  your  outward  favor. 
Well,  Honor  is  the  subject  of  my  story. 
I  can  not  tell  what  you  and  other  men 
Think  of  this  life ;  but,  for  my  single  self, 
I  had  as  lief  not  be  as  live  to  be 
In  awe  of  such  a  thing  as  I  myself. 
I  was  born  free  as  Caesar :  so  were  you. 
We  both  have  fed  as  well ;  and  we  can  both 
Endure  the  winter's  cold  as  well  as  he. 
For  once,  upon  a  raw  and  gusty  day, 


570  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

The  troubled  Tiber  chafing  with  her  shores, 

Caesar  said  to  me,  "  Dar'st  thou,  Ca.--«ius,  uoio 

Leap  in  with  me  into  thus  anr/ry  flood, 

And  swim  to  yonder  point?  "     Upon  the  word, 

Accoutered  as  I  was,  I  plunged  in, 

And  bade  him  follow :  so,  indeed,  he  did. 

The  torrent  roared ;  and  we  did  buffet  it 

With  lusty  sinews;  throwing  it  aside, 

And  stemming  it  with  hearts  of  controversy. 

But,  ere  we  could  arrive  the  point  proposed, 

Caesar  cried,  "  Help  me,  Cussius,  or  I  sink  !  " 

I,  as  JEneas,  our  great  ancestor, 

Did  from  the  flames  of  Troy  upon  his  shoulder 

The  old  Anchises  bear,  so  from  the  waves  of  Tiber 

Did  I  the  tired  Caesar.     And  this  man 

Is  now  become  a  god;  and  Cassias  is 

A  wretched  creature,  and  must  bend  his  body 

If  Caesar  carelessly  but  nod  on  him. 

He  had  a  fever  when  he  was  in  Spain  : 

And,  when  the  fit  was  on  him,  I  did  mark 

How  he  did  shake  :  'tis  true,  this  god  did  shake  •. 

His  coward  lips  did  from  their  color  fly ; 

And  that  same  eye,  whose  bend  doth  awe  the  world, 

Did  lose  his  luster.     I  did  hear  him  in-oan ; 

Ay,  and  that  tongue  of  his,  that  bade  the  Romans 

Mark  him,  and  write  his  speeches  in  their  books, 

Alas!  it  cried,  "  Give  me  some  drink,  Titinius" 

As  a  sick  girl.     Ye  gods,  it  doth  amaze  me, 

A  man  of  such  a  feeble  temper  should 

So  get  the  start  of  the  majestic  world, 

And  bear  the  palm  alone  !  [Shout.     Flourish. 

Bru.  Another  general  shout ! 
I  do  believe  that  these  applauses  are 
For  some  new  honors  that  are  heaped  on  Caesar. 

Cos.  Why,  man,  he  doth  bestride  the  narrow  world 
Like  a  Colossus ;  and  we  petty  men 
AValk  under  his  huge  legs,  and  peep  about 
To  find  ourselves  dishonorable  graves. 
Men  at  some  time  are  masters  of  their  fates  : 
The  fault,  dear  Brutus,  is  not  in  our  stars, 
But  in  ourselves,  that  we  are  underlings. 
Brutus  and  Cassar :  what  should  be  in  that  Ccesar  f 
Why  should  that  name  be  sounded  more  than  yours  ? 
Write  them  together,  yours  is  as  fair  a  name  : 
Sound  them,  it  doth  become  the  mouth  as  well ; 
Weiirh  them,  it  is  as  heavy  ;  conjure  with  them, 

Brutus  will  start  a  spirit  as  soon  as  Ccesar.  [Shout. 

Now,  in  the  names  of  all  the  gods  at  once, 
Upon  what  meat  doth  this  our  Caesar  feed, 
That  he  is  grown  so  great  ?  '  Age,  thou  art  shamed  ! 
Rome,  thou  hast  lost  the  breed  of  noble  bloods  ! 
When  went  there  by  an  age,  since  the  great  flood, 


WILLIAM  SHAKSPEARE.  571 


But  it  was  famed  with  more  than  with  one  man  ? 
When  could  they  say  till  now,  that  talked  of  Rome, 
That  her  wide  walls  encompassed  but  one  man? 
Now  is  it  Rome  indeed,  and  room  enough, 
When  there  is  in  it  but  one  only  man. 
Oh  !  you  and  I  have  heard  our  lathers  say 
There  was  a  Brutus  once  that  would  have  brooked 
The  eternal  devil  to  keep  his  state  in  Rome, 
As  easily  as  a  king. 

Bru.  That  you  do  love  me,  I  am  nothing  jealous ; 
What  you  would  work  me  to,  I  have  some  aim  ; 
How  I  have  thought  of  this,  and  of  these  times, 
I  shall  recount  hereafter  :  for  this  present, 
I  would  not,  so  with  love  I  might  entreat  you, 
Be  any  further  moved.     What  you  have  said 
I  will  consider;  what  you  have  to  say 
I  will  with  patience  hear,  and  find  a  time 
Both  meet  to  hear  and  answer  such  high  things. 
Till  then,  my  noble  friend,  chew  upon  this : 
Brutus  had  rather  be  a  villager 
Than  to  repute  himself  a  son  of  Rome 
Under  these  hard  conditions  as  this  time 
Is  like  to  lay  upon  us. 

Cos.  I  am  glad  that  my  weak  words 
Have  struck  but  this  much  show  of  fire  from  Brutus. 

Re-enter  CAESAR  and  his  Train. 

Bru.  The  games  are  done,  and  Caesar  is  returning. 

Ca*.  As  they  pass  by,  pluck  Casca  by  the  sleeve ; 
And  he  will,  after  his  sour  fashion,  tell  you 
What  hath  proceeded  worthy  note  to-day. 

Bru.  I  will  do  so.     But  look  you,  Cassius ! 
The  angry  spot  doth  glow  on  Caesar's  brow ; 
And  all  the  rest  look  like  a  chidden  train  : 
Calphurnia's  cheek  is  pale  ;  and  Cicero 
Looks  with  such  ferret  and  such  fiery  eyes 
As  we  have  seen  him  in  the  Capitol, 
Being  crossed  in  conference  by  some  senators. 

Cas.  Casca  will  tell  us  what  the  matter  is. 

Cces.  Antonius ! 

Ant.  Caesar! 

Cces.  Let  me  have  men  about  me  that  are  fat ; 
Sleek-headed  men,  and  such  as  sleep  o'  nights : 
Yond  Cassius  has  a  lean  and  hungry  look ; 
He  thinks  too  much  :  such  men  are  dangerous. 

Ant.  Fear  him  not,  Caesar:  he's  not  dangerous. 
He  is  a  noble  Roman,  and  well  given. 

Cces.  Would  he  were  fatter !     But  I  fear  him  not. 
Yet,  if  my  name  were  liable  to  fear, 
I  do  not  know  the  man  I  should  avoid 
So  soon  as  that  spare  Cassius.     He  reads  much; 
He  is  a  great  observer,  and  he  looks 


572  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

Quite  through  the  deeds  of  men  :  he  loves  no  plays, 
As  thou  dost,  Antony  ;  he  hears  no  music  ; 
Seldom  he  smiles,  and  smiles  in  such  a  sort 
As  if  he  mocked  himself,  and  scorned  his  spirit 
That  could  be  moved  to  smile  at  any  thing. 
Such  men  as  he  be  never  at  heart's  ease 
Whiles  they  behold  a  greater  than  themselves  ; 
And  therefore  are  they  very  dangerous. 
I  rather  tell  thee  what  is  to  be  feared 
Than  what  I  fear ;  for  always  I  am  Caesar. 
Come  on  my  right  hand,  for  this  ear  is  deaf, 
And  tell  me  truly  what  thou  think'st  of  him. 

[Sennet.     Exeunt  CAESAR  and  his  Train.     CASCA  stays  behind. 

Casca.  You  pulled  me  by  the  cloak  :  would  you  speak  with  me  ? 

Bru.  Ay,  Casca  :  tell  us  what  hath  chanced  to-day, 
That  Caesar  looks  so  sad. 

•Casca.  Why,  you  were  with  him,  were  you  not  ? 

Bru.  I  should  not  then  ask  Casca  what  hath  chanced. 

Casca.  Why,  there  was  a  crown  offered  him :  and,  being  offered  him, 
he  put  it  by  with  the  back  of  his  hand,  thus ;  and  then  the  people  fell 
a-shoutingj. 

Bru.  What  w*as  the  second  noise  for? 

Casca.  Why,  for  that  too. 

Cos.  They  shouted  thrice  :  what  was  the  last  cry  for  ? 

Casca.  Why,  for  that  too. 

Bru.  Was  the  crown  offered  him  thrice  ? 

Casca.  Ay,  marry,  was't ;  and  he  put  it  by  thrice,  every  time  gentler 
than  other ;  and,  at  every  putting  by,  mine  honest  neighbors  shouted. 

Cas.  Who  offered  him  the  crown  ? 

Casca.  Why,  Antony. 

Bru.  Tell  us  the  manner  of  it,  gentle  Casca. 

Casca.  I  can  as  well  be  hanged  as  tell  the  manner  of  it :  it  was  mere 
foolery.  I  did  not  mark  it.  I  saw  Mark  Antony  offer  him  a  crown,  — 
yet  'twas  not  a  crown  neither ;  'twas  one  of  these  coronets,  —  and,  as  I 
told  you,  he  put  it  by  once ;  but  for  all  that,  to  my  thinking,  he  would 
fain  have  had  it.  Then  he  offered  it  to  him  again  ;  then  he  put  it  by 
again  :  but,  to  my  thinking,  he  was  very  loath  to  lay  his  fingers  off  it. 
And  then  he  offered  it  the  third  time ;  he  put  it  the  third  time  by : 
and  still,  as  he  refused  it,  the  rabblement  hooted,  and  clapped  their 
chapped  hands,  and  threw  up  their  sweaty  nightcaps,  and  uttered  such 
a  deal  of  stinking  breath  because  Caesar  refused  the  crown,  that  it  had 
almost  choked  Caesar ;  for  he  swooned  and  fell  down  at  it."  And,  for 
my  own  part,  I  durst  not  laugh,  for  fear  of  opening  my  lips  and  re- 
ceiving the  bad  air. 

Cas.  But  soft,  I  pray  you.     What !  did  Caesar  swoon  ? 

Casca.  He  fell  down  in  the  market-place,  and  foamed  at  mouth,  and 
was  speechless. 

Bru.  'Tis  very  like :  he  hath  the  falling-sickness. 

Cos.  No,  Caesar  hath  it  not ;  but  you  and  I 
And  honest  Casca  —  we  have  the  falling-sickness. 

Casca.  I  know  not  what  you  mean  by  that ;  but  I  am  sure  Caesar 


WILLIAM  SHAKSPEAKE.  573 

fell  down.  If  the  tag-ra^  people  did  not  clap  him  and  hiss  him  ac- 
cording as  he  pleased  and  displeased  them,  as  they  used  to  do  the  players 
in  the  theater,  I  am  no  true  man. 

Bru.  What  said  he  when  he  came  unto  himself? 

Casca.  Marry,  before  he  fell  down,  when  he  perceived  the  common 
herd  was  glad  he  refused  the  crown,  he  plucked  me  ope  his  doublet, 
and  offered  them  his  throat  to  cut.  An  I  had  been  a  man  of  any 
occupation,  if  I  would  not  have  taken  him  at  a  word,  I  would  I  might 
go  to  hell  among  the  rogues !  And  so  he  fell.  When  he  came  to  him- 
self again,  he  said,  if  he  had  done  or  said  any  thing  amiss,  he  desired 
their  worships  to  think  it  was  his  infirmity.  Three  or  four  wenches 
where  I  stood  cried,  "Alas,  good  soul!"  and  forgave  him  with  all  their 
hearts.  But  there's  no  heed  to  be  taken  of  them  :  if  Caesar  had  stabbed 
their  mothers,  they  would  have  done  no  less. 

Bru.  And,  after  that,  he  came  thus  sad  away  ? 

Casca.  Ay. 

Cas.  Did  Cicero  say  any  thing  ? 

Casca.  Ay,  he  spoke  Greek. 

Cas.  To  what  effect  ? 

Casca.  Nay,  an  I  tell  you  that,  I'll  ne'er  look  you  i'  the  face  again. 
But  those  that  understood  him  smiled  at  one  another,  and  shook  their 
heads;  but,  for  my  own  part,  it  was  Greek  to  me.  .1  could  tell  you 
more  news  too :  Marullus  and  Flavius,  for  pulling  scarfs  off  Caesar's 
images,  are  put  to  silence.  Fare  you  well!  There  was  more  foolery 
yet,  if  I  could  remember  it. 

Cas.  Will  you  sup  with  me  to  night,  Casca  ? 

Casca.  No  :  I  am  promised  forth. 

Cas.  Will  you  dine  with  me  to-morrow  ? 

Casca.  Ay,  if  I  be  alive,  and  your  mind  hold,  and  your  dinner  worth 
the  eating. 

Cas.  Good  :  I  will  expect  you. 

Casca.  Do  so.     Farewell  both  !  [Exit  CASCA. 

Bru.  What  a  blunt  fellow  is  this  grown  to  be  I 
He  was  quick  mettle  when  he  went  to  school. 

Cos.  So  is  he  now  in  execution 
Of  any  bold  or  noble  enterprise, 
However  he  puts  on  this  tardy  form. 
This  rudeness  is  a  sauce  to  his  good  wit, 
Which  gives  men  stomach  to  digest  his  words 
With  better  appetite. 

Bru.  And  so  it  is.     For  this  time  I  will  leave  you : 
To-morrow,  if  you  please  to  speak  with  me, 
I  will  come  home  to  you ;  or,  if  you  will, 
Come  home  to  me,  and  I  will  wait  for  you. 

Cas.  I  will  do  so :  till  then,  think  of  the  world.  {Exit  BRUTUS. 

Well,  Brutus,  thou  art  noble  ;  yet  I  see 
Thy  honorable  metal  may  be  wrought 
From  that  it  is  disposed  :  therefore  it  is  meet 
That  noble  minds  keep  ever  with  their  likes ; 
For  who  so  firm  that  can  not  be  seduced  ? 
Caesar  doth  bear  me  hard  ;  but  he  loves  Brutus. 
If  I  were  Brutus  now,  and  he  were  Cassius, 


574  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

He  should  not  humor  me.     I  will  this  night, 

In  several  hands,  in  at  his  windows  throw, 

A-  if  they  came  from  several  citizens, 

Writings  all  tending  to  the  great  opinion 

That  Rome  holds  of  his  name,  wherein  obscurely 

Caesar's  ambition  shall  be  glanced  at : 

And.  after  this,  let  Caesar  seat  him  sure; 

For  we  will  shake  him,  or  worse  days  endure.  [Exit. 

SCENE  III.  —  The  Same.    A  Street. 

Thunder  and  lightning.     Enter,  from  opposite  sides,  CASCA  with  his  sword  drawn,  and 

CICERO. 

Cic.  Good-even,  Casca  !     Brought  you  Caesar  home  ? 
Why  are  you  breathless  ?  and  why  stare  you  so  ? 

Casca.  *Are  not  you  moved  when  all  the  sway  of  earth 
Shakes  like  a  thing  unfirm  V     O  Cicero  ! 
T  have  seen  tempests  when  the  scolding  winds 
Have  rived  the  knotty  oaks ;  and  I  have  seen 
The  ambitious  ocean  swell  and  rage  and  foam 
To  be  exalted  with  the  threatening  clouds ; 
But  never  till  to-night,  never  till  now, 
Did  I  go  through  a  tempest  dropping  fire. 
Either  there  is  a  civil  strife  in  heaven, 
Or  else  the  world,  too  saucy  with  the  gods, 
Incenses  them  to  send  destruction. 

Cic.  Why,  saw  you  any  thing  more  wonderful  ? 

Co-vca.  A  common  slave  (you  know  him  well  by  sight) 
Held  up  his  left  hand,  which  did  flame  and  burn 
Like  twenty  torches  joined ;  and  yet  his  hand, 
Not  sensible  of  fire,  remained  unscorched. 
Besides  (I  have  not  since  put  up  my  sword), 
Against  the  Capitol  I  met  a  lion, 
AVho  glared  upon  me,  and  went  surly  by, 
Without  annoying  me  ;  and  there  were  drawn 
Upon  a  heap  a  hundred  ghastly  women, 
Transformed  with  their  fear,  who  swore  they  saw 
Men  all  in  fire  walk  up  and  down  the  streets. 
And  yesterday  the  bird  of  night  did  sit, 
Even" at  noonday,  upon  the  market-place, 
Hooting  and  shrieking.     When  these  prodigies 
Do  so  conjointly  meet,  let  not  men  say 
These  are  their  reasons,  —  they  are  natural ; 
For  I  believe  they  are  portentous  things 
Unto  the  climate  that  they  point  upon. 

Cic.  Indeed  it  is  a  strange-disposed  time ; 
But  men  may  construe  things  after  their  fashion, 
Clean  from  the  purpose  of  the  things  themselves. 
Comes  Cassar  to  the  Capitol  to-morrow  ? 

Casca.  He  doth  ;  for  he  did  bid  Antonius 
Send  word  to  you  he  would  be  there  to-morrow. 

Cic.  Good-night,  then,  Casea !  this  disturbed  sky 
Is  not  to  walk  in. 


WILLIAM  SHAKSPEARE.  575. 

Casca.  Farewell,  Cicero!  [Exit  CICEUO. 

Enter  CASSIUS. 

Cos.  Who's  there  ? 

Casca.  A  Roman. 

Cos.  Casca,  by  your  voice. 

Casca.  Your  ear  is  good.     Cassius,  what  a  night  is  this  ! 

Cos.  A  very  pleasing  night  to  honest  men. 

Casca.  Who  ever  knew  the  heavens  menace  so  ? 

Cos.  Those  that  have  known  the  earth  so  full  of  faults. 
For  my  part,  I  have  walked  about  the  streets, 
Submitting  me  unto  the  perilous  night ; 
And  thus  unbraced,  Casca,  as  you  see, 
Have  bared  my  bosom  to  the  thunder-stone  ; 
And,  when  the  cross  blue  lightning  seemed  to  open 
The  breast  of  heaven,  I  did  present  myself 
Even  in  the  aim  and  very  flash  of  it. 

Cavca.  But  wherefore  did  you  so  much  tempt  the  heavens  ? 
It  is  the  part  of  men  to  fear  and  tremble 
When  the  most  mighty  gods,  by  tokens,  send 
Such  dreadful  heralds  to  astonish  us. 

Cos.  You  are  dull,  Casca ;  and  those  sparks  of  life 
That  should  be  in  a  Roman  you  do  want, 
Or  else  you  use  not.     You  look  pale,  and  gaze, 
And  put  on  fear,  and  cast  yourself  in  wonder, 
To  see  the  strange  impatience  of  the  heavens : 
But  if  you  would  consider  the  true  cause, 
Why  all  these  fires,  why  all  these  gliding  ghosts, 
Why  birds  and  beasts,  from  quality  and  kind ; 
Why  old  men,  fools,  and  children  calculate  ; 
Why  all  these  things  change  from  their  ordinance, 
Their  natures,  and  pre-formed  faculties, 
To  monstrous  quality,  —  why,  you  shall  find 
That  Heaven  hath  infused  them  with  these  spirits 
To  make  them  instruments  of  fear  and  warning 
Unto  some  monstrous  state.     Now  could  I,  Casca, 
Name  to  thee  a  man  most  like  this  dreadful  night ; 
That  thunders,  lightens,  opens  graves,  and  roars, 
As  doth  the  lion  in  the  Capitol ; 
A  man  no  mightier  than  thyself  and  me 
In  personal  action,  yet  prodigious  grown, 
And  fearful  as  these  strange  eruptions  are. 

Casca.  'Tis  Csesar  that  you  mean.    Is  it  not,  Cassius  ? 

Cos.  Let  it  be  who  it  is :  for  Romans  now 
Have  thews  and  limbs  like  to  their  ancestors; 
But,  woe  the  while !  our  fathers'  minds  are  dead, 
And  we  are  governed  with  our  mothers'  spirits  : 
Our  yoke  and  sufferance  show  us  womanish. 

Casca.  Indeed,  tliey  say,  the  senators  to-morrow 
Mean  to  establish  Caesar  as  a  king; 
And  he  shall  wear  his  crown  by  sea  and  land 
In  every  plane  save  here  in  Italy. 


576  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Cos.  I  know  where  I  will  wear  this  dagger,  then : 
Cassius  from  bondage  will  deliver  Cassius : 
Therein,  ye  gods,  you  make  the  weak  most  strong ; 
Therein,  ye  gods,  you  tyrants  do  defeat. 
Nor  stony  tower,  nor  walls  of  beaten  brass, 
Nor  airless  dungeon,  nor  strong  links  of  iron, 
Can  be  retentive  to  the  strength  of  spirit ; 
But  life,  being  weary  of  these  worldly  bars, 
Never  lacks  power  to  dismiss  itself. 
If  I  know  this,  know,  all  the  world  besides, 
That  part  of  tyranny  that  I  do  bear 
I  can  shake  off  at  pleasure. 

Casca.  So  can  1 : 

So  every  bondman  in  his  own  hand  bears 
The  power  to  cancel  his  captivity. 

Cos.   And  why  should  Caesar  be  a  tyrant,  then? 
Poor  man  !  I  know  he  would  not  be  a  wolf, 
But  that  he  sees  the  Romans  are  but  sheep  : 
He  were  no  lion,  were  not  Romans  hinds. 
Those  that  with  haste  will  make  a  mighty  fire 
Begin  it  with  weak  straws.    What  trash  is  Rome, 
What  rubbish,  and  what  offal,  when  it  serves 
For  the  base  matter  to  illuminate 
So  vile  a  thing  as  Caesar  !     But,  O  Grief! 
Where  hast  thou  led  me  ?     I,  perhaps,  speak  this 
Before  a  willing  bondman  :  then  I  know 
My  answer  must  be  made.     But  I  ain  armed, 
And  dangers  are  to  me  indifferent. 

Casca.  You  speak  to  Casca ;  and,  to  such  a  man, 
That  is  no  fleering  tell-tale.     Hold  my  hand  : 
Be  factious  for  redress  of  all  these  griefs, 
And  I  will  set  this  foot  of  mine  as  far 
As  who  goes  farthest. 

Cos.  There's  a  bargain  made. 
Now  know  you,  Casca,  I  have  moved  already 
Some  certain  of  the  noblest-minded  Romans 
To  undergo  with  me  an  enterprise 
Of  honorable-dangerous  consequence ; 
And  I  do  know  by  this  they  stay  for  me 
In  Pompey's  porch :  for  now,  this  fearful  night, 
There  is  no  stir  or  walking  in  the  streets ; 
And  the  complexion  of  the  element 
In  favor's  like  the  work  we  have  in  hand,  — 
Most  bloody,  fiery,  and  most  terrible. 

Enter  CIXXA. 

Casca.  Stand  close  a  while ;  for  here  comes  one  in  haste. 

Cos.  'Tis  Cinna :  I  do  know  him  by  his  gait. 
He  is  a  friend. —  Cinna,  where  haste  you  so? 

Cm.  To  find  out  you.     Who's  that  ?    Metellus  Cimbei  ? 

Ca«.  No:  it  is  Casca;  one  incorporate 
To  our  attempts.     Am  I  not  staid  for,  Cinna  ? 


WILLIAM   SHAKSPEARE.  577 

Cln.  I  am  glad  on't.     What  a  fearful  night  is  this ! 
There's  two  or  three  of  us  have  seen  strange  sights. 

Cos.  Am  I  not  staid  for,  Cinna  ?     Tell  me. 

Cin.  Yes,  you  are. 
O  Cassius !  if  you  could  but  win  the  noble  Brutus  to  our  party — 

Cos.  Be  you  content.     Good  Cinna,  take  this  paper; 
And,  look  you,  lay  it  in  the  praetor's  chair, 
Where  Brutus  may  but  find  it ;  and  throw  this 
In  at  his  window ;  set  this  up  with  wax 
Upon  old  Brutus'  statue :  all  this  done, 
Repair  to  Pompey's  porch,  where  you  shall  find  us. 
Is  Decius  Brutus  and  Trebonius  there  ? 

Cm.  All  but  Metellus  Cimber ;  and  he's  gone 
To  seek  you  at  your  house.     Well,  I  will  hie, 
And  so  bestow  these  papers  as  you  bade  me. 

Cos.  That  done,  repair  to  Pompey's  theater.  {Exit  CINXA. 

Come,  Casca,  you  and  I  will  yet,  ere  da}-, 
See  Brutus  at  his  house :  three  parts  of  him 
Is  ours  already ;  and  the  man  entire, 
Upon  the  next  encounter,  yields  him  ours. 

Casca.  Oh  1  he  sits  high  in  all  the  people's  hearts ; 
And  that  which  would  appear  offense  in  us, 
His  countenance,  like  richest  alchemy, 
Will  change  to  virtue  and  to  worthiness. 

Cos.  Him  and  his  worth',  and  our  great  need  of  him, 
You  have  right  well  conceited.     Let  us  go, 
For  it  is  after  midnight ;  and  ere  day 
We  will  awake  him,  and  be  sure  of  him.  [Exeunt. 


ACT  II. 
SCENE  I.  —  The  Same.    BRUTUS'  Orchard. 

Enter  BRUTUS. 
Bru.  What,  Lucius !  ho ! 
I  can  not  by  the  progress  of  the  stars 
Give  guess  how  near  to  day.     Lucius,  I  say  ! 
I  would  it  were  my  fault  to  sleep  so  soundly ! 
When,  Lucius  ?  when  ?     Awake,  I  say  !     What,  Lucius  I 

Enter  Lucn/s. 

Luc.  Called  you,  my  lord  ? 

Bru.  Get  me  a  taper  in  my  study,  Lucius  : 
When  it  is  lighted,  come  and  call  me  here. 

Luc.  I  will,  my  lord.  {Exit. 

Bru.  It  must  be  by  his  death  ;  and,  for  my  part, 
I  know  no  personal  cause  to  spurn  at  him, 
But  for  the  general.     He  would  be  crowned : 
How  that  might  change  his  nature,  there's  the  question. 
37 


578  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Tt  is  the  bright  flay  that  brings  forth  the  adder : 

And  that  craves  wary  walking.     Crown  hiru'i —  that; 

And  then.  I  grant,  we  put  a  sting  in  him, 

That  at  his  will  he  may  do  danger  with. 

The  abuse  at'  greatness  is  when  it  disjoins 

Remorse  from  power ;  and,  to  speak  truth  of  Caesar, 

J  have  not  known  when  his  affections  swayed 

More  than  his  reason.     But  'tis  a  common  proof 

That  lowliness  is  young  ambition's  ladder, 

Whereto  the  climber  upward  turns  his  face ; 

But,  when  he  once  attains  the  upmost  round, 

He  then  unto  the  ladder  turns  his  back. 

Looks  in  the  clouds,  scorning  the  base  degrees 

By  which  he  did  ascend.     So  Caesar  may. 

Then,  lest  he  may,  prevent.     And,  since  the  quarrel 

Will  bear  no  color  for  the  thine:  lie  is. 

Fashion  it  thus;  that  what  he  is.  augmented, 

Would  run  to  these  and  these  extremities  : 

And  therefore  think  him  as  a  serpent's  egg, 

Which,  hatched,  would,  as  his  kind,  grow  mischievous ; 

And  kill  him  in  the  shell. 

Re-enter  Lucius. 

Luc.  The  taper  burneth  in  your  closet,  sir. 
Searching  the  window  for  a  flint.  I  found 
This  paper,  thus  sealed  up:  and  I  am  sure 
It  did  not  lie  there  when  I  went  to  bed.  [Gives  him  the  letter. 

Bru.  Get  you  to  bed  again  :  it  is  not  day. 
Is  not  to-morrow,  boy,  the  ides  of  March? 

Luc.  I  know  not,  sir. 

Bru.  Look  in  the  calendar,  and  bring  me  word. 

Luc.  I  will.  sir.  [E.clt. 

Bru.  The  exhalations  whizzing  in  the  air 
Give  so  much  light,  that  I  may  read  by  them. 

[Opens  the  letter,  and  reads. 
"  Brutus,  thou  sleep' st :  awake,  and  ace  thyself! 
Shall  Rome,  fyc.     Speak,  strike,  redress  !  " 
'•  Brutus,  thou  sleep' st :  awake .'  " 
Such  instigations  have  been  often  dropped 
Where  I  have  took  them  up. 
"  Shall  Rome,  &c."     Thus  must  I  piece  it  out :  — 
Shall  Rome  stand  under  one  man's  awe?     What!  Rome? 
My  ancestors  did  from  the  streets  of  Rome 
The  Tarquin  drive  when  he  was  called  a  kins;. 
44  Speak,  strike,  redress  !  "     Am  I  entreated,  then, 
To  speak  and  strike  ?     O  Rome !  I  make  thee  promise, 
If  the  redress  will  follow,  thou  receivest 
Thy  full  petition  at  the  hand  of  Brutus. 

Re-enter  Lucius. 

Luc.  Sir,  March  is  wasted  fourteen  days.  [Knock  tcit/iin. 

Bru.  'Tis  good.     Go  to  the  gate :  somebody  knocks.       [Exit  Lucius. 


WILLIAM  SHAKSPEAUE.  579 

Since  Cassius  first  did  whet  me  against  Caesar, 

I  have  not  slept. 

Between  the  acting  of  a  dreadful  thing 

And  the  first  motion,  all  the  interim  is 

Like  a  phantasma  or  a  hideous  dream  : 

The  genius  and  the  mortal  instruments 

Are  then  in  council ;  and  the  state  of  a  man, 

Like  to  a  little  kingdom,  sutlers  then 

The  nature  of  an  insurrection. 

He-enter  Lucius. 

Luc.  Sir,  'tis  your  brother  Cassius  at  the  door, 
Who  doth  desire  to  see  you. 

Bru.  Is  he  alone  ? 

Luc.  No,  sir  :  there  are  more  with  him. 

Bru.  Do  you  know  them  ? 

Luc.  No,  sir :  their  hats  are  plucked  about  their  ears, 
And  half  their  faces  buried  in  their  cloaks, 
That  by  no  means  I  may  discover  them 
By  any  mark  of  favor. 

Bru.  Let  them  enter.  [Exit  Lucius. 

They. are  the  faction.     O  Conspiracy! 
Sham'st  thou  to  show  thy  dangerous  brow  by  night, 
When  evils  are  most  free  V     Oh  !  then,  by  day, 
Where  wilt  thou  find  a  cavern  dark  enough 
To  mask  thy  monstrous  visage  V     Seek  none,  Conspiracy ; 
Hide  it  in  smiles  and  affability ; 
For,  if  thou  path  thy  native  semblance  on, 
Not  Erebus  itself  were  dim  enough 
To  hide  thee  from  prevention. 

Enter  CASSIUS,  CASCA,  DECIUS,  CINNA,  METELLUS  CIMBER,  and  TREBONIUS. 

Cas.  I  think  we  are  too  bold  upon  your  rest : 
Good-morrow,  Brutus  !     Do  we  trouble  you  V 

Bru.  I  have  been  up  this  hour;  awake  all  night. 
Know  I  these  men  that  come  along  with  you  V 

Cas.  Yes,  every  man  of  them ;  and  no  man  here 
But  honors  you ;  and  every  one  doth  wish 
You  had  but  that  opinion  of  yourself 
Which  every  noble  Roman  bears  of  you. 
This  is  Trebonius. 

Bru.  He  is  welcome  hither. 

Cas.  This,  Decius  Brutus. 

Bru.  He  is  welcome  too. 

Cas.  This,  Casca ;  this,  Cinna ;  and  this,  Metellus  Cimber. 

Bru.  They  are  all  welcome. 
What  watchful  cares  do  interpose  themselves 
Betwixt  your  eyes  and  night  ? 

Cas.  Shall  I  entreat  a  word  ?  [Tliey  wliisper. 

Dec.  Here  lies  the  east :  doth  not  the  day  break  here  ? 

Casca.  No. 


580  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Cm.  Oh  !  pardon,  sir;  it  doth;  and  yon  gray  lines 
That  fret  the  clouds  are  messengers  of  day. 

Casca.  You  shall  confess  that  you  are  both  deceived. 
Here,  as  I  point  my  sword,  the  sun  arises, 
Which  is  a  great  way  growing  on  the  south, 
Weighing  the  youthful  season  of  the  year. 
Some  two  months  hence,  up  higher  toward  the  north 
He  first  presents  his  fire ;  and  the  high  east 
Stands,  as  the  Capitol,  directly  here. 

Bru.  Give  me  your  hands  all  over,  one  by  one. 

Cos.  And  let  us  swear  our  resolution. 

Bru.  No,  not  an  oath  :  if  not  the  face  of  men, 
The  sufferance  of  our  souls,  the  time's  abuse,  — 
If  these  be  motives  weak,  break  off  betimes, 
And  every  man  hence  to  his  idle  bed  : 
So  let  high-sighted  tyranny  range  on 
Till  each  man  drop  by  lottery.     But  if  these, 
As  I  am  sure  they  do,  bear  fire  enough 
To  kindle  cowards,  and  to  steel  with  valor 
The  melting  spirits  of  women,  —  then,  countrymen, 
AVhat  need  we  any  spur  but  our  own  cause 
To  prick  us  to  redress  ?  what  other  bond 
Than  secret  Romans,  that  have  spoke  the  word, 
And  will  not  palter  ?  and  what  other  oath 
Than  honesty  to  honesty  engraved 
That  this  shall  be,  or  we  will  fall  for  it  ? 
Swear  priests  and  cowards,  and  men  cautelous, 
Old  feeble  carrions,  and  such  suffering  souls 
That  welcome  wrongs  ;  unto  bad  causes  swear 
Such  creatures  as  men  doubt :  but  do  not  stain 
The  even  virtue  of  our  enterprise, 
Nor  the  insuppressive  metal  of  our  spirits, 
To  think  that  or  our  cause  or  our  performance 
Did  need  an  oath ;  when  every  drop  of  blood 
That  every  Roman  bears,  and  nobly  bears, 
Is  guilty  of  a  several  bastardy 
If  he  do  break  the  smallest  particle 
Of  any  promise  that  hath  passed  from  him. 

Cos.  But  what  of  Cicero  ?     Shall  we  sound  him  ? 
1  think  he  will  stand  very  strong  with  us. 

Casca.  Let  us  not  leave  him  out. 

Cm.  No,  by  no  means  ! 

Met.  Oh  !    let  us  have  him  ;  for  his  silver  hairs 
Will  purchase  us  a  good  opinion, 
And  buy  men's  voices  to  commend  our  deeds  ; 
It  shall  be  said  his  judgment  ruled  our  hands : 
Our  youths  and  wildness  shall  no  whit  appear, 
But  all  be  buried  in  his  gravity. 

Bru.  Oh,  name  him  not !  let  us  not  break  with  him  ; 
For  he  will  never  follow  any  thing 
That  other  men  begin. 

Cos.  Then  leave  him  out. 


WILLIAM  SHAKSPEARE.  581 

Casca.  Indeed,  he  is  not  fit. 

Dec.  Shall  no  man  else  be  touched  but  only  Caesar? 

Cos.  Decius,  well  urged.     I  think  it  is  not  meet 
Mark  Antony,  so  well  beloved  of  Caesar, 
Should  outlive  Caesar.     We  shall  find  of  him 
A  shrewd  contriver  :  and  you  know  his  means, 
If  he  improve  them,  may  well  stretch  so  far 
As  to  annoy  us  all ;  which  to  prevent, 
Let  Antony  and  Caesar  fall  together. 

Bru.  Our  course  will  seem  too  bloody,  Caius  Cassias, 
To  cut  the  head  off,  and  then  hack  the  limbs, 
Like  wrath  in  death,  and  envy  afterwards  ; 
For  Antony  is  but  a  limb  of  Caesar. 
Let  us  be  sacrificers,  but  not  butchers,  Caius. 
We  all  stand  up  against  the  spirit  of  Caesar ; 
And  in  the  spirit  of  mea  there  is  no  blood  : 
Oh  that  we  then  could  come  by  Caesar's  spirit, 
And  not  dismember  Caesar  !     But,  alas  ! 
Caesar  must  bleed  for  it.     And,  gentle  friends, 
Let's  kill  him  boldly,  but  not  wrathfully ; 
Let's  carve  him  as  a  dish  fit  for  the  gods, 
Not  hew  him  as  a  carcass  fit  for  hounds ; 
And  let  our  hearts,  as  subtle  masters  do, 
Stir  up  their  servants  to  an  act  of  rage, 
And  after  seem  to  chide  them.     This  shall  mark 
Our  purpose  necessary,  and  not  envious  ; 
Which  so  appearing  to  the  common  eyes, 
We  shall  be  called  purgers,  not  murderers. 
And  for  Mark  Antony,  think  not  of  him ; 
For  he  can  do  no  more  than  Caesar's  arm 
When  Caesar's  head  is  ofF. 

Cas.  Yet  I  do  fear  him ; 
For  in  the  ingrafted  love  he  bears  to  Caesar  — 

Bru.  Alas  !  good  Cassius,  do  not  think  of  him : 
If  he  love  Caesar,  all  that  he  can  do 
Is  to  himself,  —  take  thought,  and  die  for  Caesar : 
And  that  were  much  he  should  ;  for  he  is  given 
To  sports,  to  wildness,  and  much  company. 

Treb.  There  is  no  fear  in  him :  let  him  not  die; 
For  he  will  live,  and  laugh  at  this  hereafter.  [Clock  strikes. 

Bru.  Peace  !  count  the  clock. 

Cas.  The  clock  hath  stricken  three. 

Treb.  'Tis  time  to  part. 

Cas.  But  it  is  doubtful  yet 
Whether  Caesar  will  come  forth  to-day,  or  no: 
For  he  is  superstitious  grown  of  late  ; 
Quite  from  the  main  opinion  he  held  once 
Of  fantasy,  of  dreams,  and  ceremonies. 
It  may  be,  these  apparent  prodigies, 
The  unaccustomed  terror  of  this  night, 
And  the  persuasion  of  his  augurers, 
May  hold  him  from  the  Capitol  to-day. 


582  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Dec.  Never  fear  that.     If  he  be  so  resolved, 
I  can  o'ersway  him ;  for  he  loves  to  hear 
That  unicorns  may  be  betrayed  with  trees, 
And  bears  with  glasses,  elephants  with  holes, 
Lions  with  toils,  and  men  with  flatterers : 
But,  when  I  tell  him  he  hates  flatterers, 
He  says  he  does,  being  then  most  flattered. 
Let  me  work : 

For  I  can  give  his  humor  the  true  bent ; 
And  I  will  bring  him  to  the  Capitol. 

Cos.  Nay,  we  will  all  of  us  be  there  to  fetch  him. 

Bru.  By  the  eighth  hour  :  is  that  the  uttermost  ? 

Cm.  Be  that  the  uttermost,  and  fail  not  then. 

Met.  Caius  Ligarius  doth  bear  Caesar  hard, 
Who  rated  him  for  speaking  well  of  Pompcy  : 
I  wonder  none  of  you  have  thought  of  him. 

Bru.  Now,  good  Metellus,  go  along  by  him  : 
He  loves  me  well,  and  I  have  given  him  reasons : 
Send  him  but  hither,  and  I'll  fashion  him. 

Cos.  The  morning  comes  upon  us :  we'll  leave  you,  Brutus. 
And,  friends,  disperse  yourselves ;  but  all  remember 
What  you  have  said,  and  show  yourselves  true  Romans. 

Bru.  Good  gentlemen,  look  fresh  and  merrily  : 
Let  not  our  looks  put  on  our  purposes, 
But  bear  it  as  our  Roman  actors  do, 
With  untired  spirits  and  formal  constancy. 

An'l  so  good-morrow  to  you  every  one  !   *  [Exeunt  all  but  BRUTUS. 

Boy  !  Lucius  !     Fast  asleep  ?     It  is  no  matter ; 
Enjoy  the  heavy  honey-dew  of  slumber : 
Thou  hast  no  figures,  nor  no  fantasies, 
Which  busy  care  draws  in  the  brains  of  men ; 
Therefore  thou  sleep'st  so  sound. 

Enter  PORTIA. 

Por.  Brutus,  my  lord  ! 

Bru.  Portia,  what  mean  you  ?     Wherefore  rise  you  now  ? 
It  is  not  for  your  health  thus  to  commit 
Your  weak  condition  to  the  raw-cold  morning. 

Por.  Nor  for  yours  neither.     You've  ungently,  Brutus, 
Stole  from  my  bed ;  and  yesternight,  at  supper,' 
You  suddenly  arose,  and  walked  about, 
Musing  and  sighing,  with  your  arms  across ; 
And,  when  I  asked  you  what  the  matter  was, 
You  stared  upon  me  with  ungentle  looks. 
I  urged  you  further  ;  then  you  scratched  your  head, 
And  too  impatiently  stamped  with  your  foot : 
Yet  I  insisted ;  yet  you  answered  not, 
But,  with  an  angry  wafture  of  your  hand, 
Gave  sign  for  me  to  leave  you.     So  I  did, 
Fearing  to  strengthen  that*  impatience 
Which  seemed  too  much  enkindled,  and,  withal, 
Hoping  it  was  but  an  effect  of  humor, 


WILLIAM  SHAKSPEARE.  583 

Which  sometime  hath  his  hour  with  every  man. 
It  will  not  let  you  eat  nor  talk  nor  sleep ; 
And,  could  it  work  so  much  upon  your  shape 
As  it  hath  much  prevailed  on  your  condition, 
I  should  not  know  you,  Brutus.     Dear  my  lord, 
Make  me  acquainted  with  your  cause  of  grief. 

Bru.  I  am  not  well  in  health ;  and  that  is  all. 

For.  Brutus  is  wise  ;  and,  were  he  not  in  health, 
He  would  embrace  the  means  to  come  by  it. 

Bru.  Why,  so  I  do.     Good  Portia,  go  to  bed. 

Por.  Is  Brutus  sick  ?  and  is  it  physical 
To  walk  unbraced,  and  suck  up  the  humors 
Of  the  dank  morning  ?     What !  is  Brutus  sick, 
And  will  he  steal  out  of  his  wholesome  bed 
To  dare  the  vile  contagion  of  the  night, 
And  tempt  the  rheumy  and  unpurged  air 
To  add  unto  his  sickness  ?     No,  my  Brutus : 
You  have  some  sick  offense  within  your  mind, 
Which,  by  the  right  and  virtue  of  my  place, 
I  ought  to  know  of;  and  upon  my  knees 
I  charm  you,  by  my  once  commended  beauty, 
By  all  your  vows  of  love,  and  that  great  vow 
-Which  did  incorporate  and  make  us  one, 
That  you  unfold  to  me,  yourself,  your  half, 
Why  you  are  heavy  ;  and  what  men  to-night 
Have  had  resort  to  you :  for  here  have  been 
Some  six  or  seven,  who  did  hide  their  faces 
Even  from  darkness. 

Bru.  Kneel  not,  gentle  Portia. 

Por.  I  should  not  need  if  you  were  gentle  Brutus. 
Within  the  bond  of  marriage,  tell  rne,  Brutus, 
Is  it  excepted  I  should  know  no  secrets 
That  appertain  to  you?     Am  I  yourself, 
But,  as  it  were,  in  sort,  or  limitation ; 
To  keep  with  you  at  meals,  comfort  your  bed, 
And  talk  to  you  sometimes?     Dvvelf  I  but  in  the  suburbs 
Of  your  good  pleasure?     If  it  be  no  more, 
Portia  is  Brutus'  harlot,  not  his  wile. 

Bra.  You  are  my  true  and  honorable  wife ; 
As  dear  to  me  as  are  the  ruddy  drops 
That  visit  my  sad  heart. 

Por.  If  this  were  true,  then  should  I  know  this  secret. 
I  grant  I  am  a  woman,  but,  withal, 
A  woman  that  lord  Brutus  took  to  wife: 
I  grant  I  am  a  woman,  but,  withal, 
A  woman  well  reputed,  Cato's  daughter. 
Think  you  I  am  no  stronger  than  my  sex, 
Being  so  fathered  and  so  husbanded  ? 
Tell  me  your  counsels ;  I  will  not  disclose  them : 
I  have  made  strong  proof  of  my  constancy, 
Giving  myself  a  voluntary  wound 
Here  in  the  thigh.    Can  I  bear  that  with  patience, 
And  not  my  husband's  secrets  ? 


584  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Bra.  O  ye  gods, 

Render  me  worthy  of  this  noble  wife  !  [Knocking  icithin. 

Hark,  hark  !  one  knocks.     Portia,  go  in  a  while  ; 
And  by  and  by  thy  bosom  shall  partake 
The  secrets  of  my  heart. 
All  my  engagements  I  will  construe  to  thee, 
All  the  charactery  of  my  sad  brows. 
Leave  me  with  haste.  [Exit  PORTIA. 

Enter  Lucius  and  LIGAKIUS. 

Lucius,  who  is  that  knocks  ? 

Luc.  Here  is  a  sick  man  that  would  speak  with  you. 

Bru.  Caius  Ligarius,  that  Metellus  spuke  of.  — 
Boy,  stand  aside  !     Caius  Ligarius  !  how  ? 

Lig.  Vouchsafe  good-morrow  from  a  feeble  tongue. 

Bru.  Oh,  what  a  time  have  you  chose  out,  brave  Caius, 
To  wear  a  kerchief!     Would  you  were  not  sick  1 

Lig.  I  am  not  sick  if  Brutus  have  in  hand 
Any  exploit  worthy  the  name  of  honor. 

Bru.  Such  an  exploit  have  I  in  hand,  Ligarius, 
Had  you  a  healthful  ear  to  hear  of  it. 

Lig.  By  all  the  gods  that  Romans  bow  before, 
I  here  discard  my  sickness.     Soul  of  Rome  ! 
Brave  son,  derived  from  honorable  loins  I 
Thou  like  an  exorcist  hast  conjured  up 
My  mortified  spirit.     Now  bid  me  run* 
And  I  will  strive  with  things  impossible ; 
Yea,  get  the  better  of  them.     What's  to  do  ? 

Bru.  A  piece  of  work  that  will  make  sick  men  whole. 

Lig.  But  are  not  some  whole  that  we  must  make  sick  ? 

Bru.  That  must  we  also.     What  it  is,  my  Caius, 
I  shall  unfold  to  thee,  as  we  are  gomg 
To  whom  it  must  be  done. 

Lig.  Set  on  your  foot ; 
And  with  a  heart  new  fired  I  follow  you, 
To  do  I  know  not  what :  but  it  sufficeth 
That  Brutus  leads  me  on. 

Bru.  Follow  me,  then.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.  —  TJte  Same.    A  Room  in  CAESAR'S  Palace. 
Thunder  and  lightning.     Enter  C-KSAR  in  his  rdght-goivn. 

Cffs.  Nor  heaven  nor  earth  hath  been  at  peace  to-night. 
Thrice  hath  Calphurnia  in  her  sleep  cried  out, 
"  Help,  ho  !  they  murder  Ccesar  !  "    Who's  within  ? 

Enter  a  SERVANT. 
Serv.  My  lord  ? 

Cces.  Go  bid  the  priests  do  present  sacrifice, 
And  bring  me  their  opinions  of  success. 

Serv.  I  will,  my  lord.  [Exit. 


WILLIAM   SHAKSPEA11E. 


Enter  CALPHURNIA. 

Cal  What  mean  you,  Caesar  ?     Think  you  to  walk  forth  ? 
You  shall  not  stir  out  of  your  house  to-day. 

Cces.  Caesar  shall  forth.     The  things  that  threatened  me 
Ne'er  looked  but  on  my  back  :  when  they  shall  see 
The  face  of  Caesar,  they  are  vanished. 

Cal.  Caesar,  I  never  stood  on  ceremonies ; 
Yet  now  they  fright  me.     There  is  one  within, 
Besides  the  things  that  we  have  heard  and  seen, 
llecounts  most  horrid  sights  seen  by  the  watch. 
A  lioness  hath  whelped  in  the  streets; 
And  graves  have  yawned,  and  yielded  up  their  dead ; 
Fierce,  fiery  warriors  fight  upon  the  clouds 
In  ranks  and  squadrons  and  right  form  of  war, 
Which  drizzled  blood  upon  the  Capitol ; 
The  noise  of  battle  hurtled  in  the  air ; 
Horses  did  neigh,  and  dying  men  did  groan ; 
And  ghosts  did  shriek  and  squeal  about  the  streets. 
O  Caesar !  these  things  are  beyond  all  use, 
And  I  do  fear  them. 

Cces.  What  can  be  avoided 
Whose  end  is  purposed  by  the  mighty  gods  ? 
Yet  Caesar  shall  go  forth  ;  for  these  predictions 
Are  to  the  world  in  general  as  to  Caesar. 

Cal.  When  beggars  die,  there  are  no  comets  seen : 
The  heavens  themselves  blaze  forth  the  death  of  princes. 

Cces.  Cowards  die  many  times  before  their  deaths : 
The  valiant  never  taste  of  death  but  once. 
Of  all  the  wonders  that  I  yet  have  heard, 
It  seems  to  me  most  strange  that  men  should  fear; 
Seeing  that  death,  a  necessary  end, 
Will  coine  when  it  will  come. 

Re-enter  a  SERVANT. 

What  say  the  augurers  ? 

Serv.  They  would  not  have  you  to  stir  forth  to-day. 
Plucking  the  entrails  of  an  offering  forth, 
They  could  not  find  a  heart  within  the  beast. 

Cces.  The  gods  do  this  in  shame  of  cowardice. 
Caesar  should  be  a  beast  without  a  heart 
If  he  should  stay  at  home  to-day  for  fear. 
No,  Caesar  shall  not.     Danger  knows  full  well 
That  Caesar  is  more  dangerous  than  he. 
We  are  two  lions  littered  in  one  day, 
And  I  the  elder  and  more  terrible ; 
And  Caesar  shall  go  forth. 

Cal.  Alas,  my  lord  ! 

Your  wisdom  is  consumed  in  confidence. 
Do  not  go  forth  to-day.     Call  it  my  fear 
Thnt  keeps  you  in  the  house,  and  not  your  own. 
We'll  send  Mark  Antony  to  the  senate-house ; 


586  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

And  he  shall  say  you  are  not  well  to-day : 
Let  me,  upon  my  knee,  prevail  in  this. 

C(t*.  Mark  Antony  shall  say  I  am  not  well ; 
And  for  thy  humor  I  will  stay  at  home. 

Enter  DECIUS. 

Here's  Decius  Brutus :  he  shall  tell  them  so. 

Dec.  Caesar,  all  hail !     Good-morrow,  worthy  Caesar ! 
I  come  to  fetch  you  to  the  senate-house. 

Cces.  And  you  are  come  in  very  happy  time 
To  bear  my  greeting  to  the  senators, 
And  tell  them  that  I  will  not  come  to-day. 
Can  not  is  false ;  and  that  I  dare  not,  falser : 
I  will  not  come  to  dav.     Tell  them  so,  Decius. 

Col.  Say  he  is  sick". 

CCRS.  Shall  Caesar  send  a  lie  ? 
Have  I  in  conquest  stretched  mine  arm  so  far 
To  be  afeard  to  tell  gray-beards  the  truth  ? 
Decius,  go  tell  them  Caesar  will  not  come. 

Dec.  Most  mighty  Caesar,  let  me  know  some  cause, 
Lest  I  be  laughed  at  when  I  tell  them  so. 

CCBS.  The  cause  is  in  my  will :  I  will  not  come  : 
That  is  enough  to  satisfy  the  senate. 
But  for  your  private  satisfaction, 
Because  I  love  you,  I  will  let  you  know. 
Calphurnia  here,  my  wife,  stays  me  at  home. 
She  dreamt  to-night  she  saw  my  statue. 
Which,  like  a  fountain  with  a  hundred  spouts, 
Did  run  pure  blood ;  and  many  lusty  Romans 
Came  smiling,  and  did  bathe  their  hands  in  it. 
And  these  does  she  apply  for  warnings  and  portents 
Of  evils  imminent,  and  on  her  knee 
Hath  besrsred  that  I  will  stay  at  home  to-day. 

Dec.  This  dream  is  all  amiss  interpreted : 
It  was  a  vision  fair  and  fortunate. 
Your  statue  spouting  blood  in  many  pipes, 
In  which  so  many  smiling  Romans  bathed, 
Signifies  that  from  you  great  Rome  shall  suck 
Reviving  blood ;  and  that  great  men  shall  press 
For  tinctures,  stains,  relics,  and  cognizance. 
This  by  Calphurnia's  dream  is  signified. 

Gens.  And  this  way  have  you  well  expounded  it. 

Dec.  I  have  when  you  have  heard  what  I  can  say. 
And  know  it  now  :  The  senate  have  concluded 
To  give  this  day  a  crown  to  mighty  Caesar. 
If  you  shall  send  them  word  you  will  not  come, 
Their  minds  may  change.     Besides,  it  were  a  mock 
Apt  to  be  rendered,  for  some  one  to  say, 
"  Break  up  the  senate  till  another  time, 
When  Cedar's  wife  shall  meet  with  better  dream*" 
If  Caesar  hide  himself,  shall  they  not  whisper, 
"LoJ  Ccesar  is  afraid  "? 


WILLIAM  SHAKSPEARE.  587 

Pardon  ine,  Caesar  :  for  my  dear,  dear  love 
To  your  proceeding  bids  me  tell  you  this ; 
And  reason  to  my  love  is  liable. 

Cces.  How  foolish  do  your  fears  seem  now,  Calplmrnia  1 
I  am  ashamed  I  did  yield  to  them. 
Give  me  my  robe ;  for  I  will  go  : 

Enter  PUBLIUS,  BRUTUS,  LIGARIUS,  METELLUS,  CASCA,  TREBOMUS,  and  CISXA. 
And  look  where  Publius  is  come  to  fetch  me ! 

Pub.  Good-morrow,  Caesar ! 

Cces.  Welcome,  Publius  !  — 
What,  Brutus  !  are  you  stirred  so  early  too  ?  — 
Good-morrow,  Casca  !  —  Caius  Ligarius, 
Caesar  was  ne'er  so  much  your  enemy 
As  that  same  ague  which  hath  made  you  lean.  — 
What  is't  o'clock  ? 

Bru.  Caesar,  'tis  struck  eight. 

CCES.  I  thank  you  for  your  pains  and  courtesy. 

Enter  ANTONY. 

See !  Antony,  that  revels  long  o*  nights, 
Is,  notwithstanding,  up.  — 
Good-morrow,  Antony ! 

Ant.  So  to  most  noble  Caesar. 

CCES.  Bid  them  prepare  within  : 
I  am  to  blame  to  be  thus  waited  for. 
Now,  China !  —  Now,  Metellus !  —  What,  Trebonius ! 
I  have  an  hour's  talk  in  store  for  you. 
Remember  that  you  call  on  me  to-day  : 
Be  near  me  that  I  may  remember  you. 

Treb.  Caesar,  I  will ;  and  so  near  will  I  be,  [Axide. 

That  your  best  friends  shall  wish  I  had  been  farther. 

CCES.  Good  friends,  go  in  and  taste  some  wine  with  me; 
And  we,  like  friends,  will  straightway  go  together. 

Bru.  That  every  like  is  not  the  same,  O  Caesar ! 
The  heart  of  Brutus  yearns  to  think  upon.  [Aside.     Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.  —  The  Same.     A  Street  near  the  Capitol. 
Enter  ARTEMIDORUS,  reading  a  paper. 

Art.  Caesar,  beware  of  Brutus;  take  heed  of  Cassius ;  come  not  near 
Casca :  have  an  eye  to  China;  trust  not  Trebonius;  mark  wdl  Metellus 
Cimber ;  Decius  Brutus  loves  thee  not ;  thou  hast  wronged  Caius  Ligarius. 
There  is  but  one  mind  in  all  these  men ;  and  it  is  bent  against  Caesar. 
If  thou  beest  not  immortal,  look  about  you :  security  {fives  way  to  con- 
spiracy. The  mighty  gods  defend  thee  !  Thy  lover,  ARTEMIDORUS, 

Here  will  I  stand  till  Caesar  pass  along ; 

And  as  a  suitor  will  I  give  him  this. 

My  heart  laments  that  virtue  can  not  live 

Out  of  the  teeth  of  emulation. 

If  thou  read  this,  O  Caesar  !  thou  mayst  live} 

If  not,  the  fates  with  traitors  do  contrive.  [Exit. 


588  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


SCENE  IV.—  The  Same.     Another  Part  of  the  same  Street,  before  the  House  of 

BEUXUS. 

Enter  PORTIA  and  Lucius. 

Por.  I  prithee,  boy,  run  to  the  senate-house : 
Stay  not  to  answer  me,  but  get  thee  gone  ! 
Why  dost  thou  stay  ? 

Luc.  To  know  my  errand,  madam, 

Por.  I  would  have  had  thee  there  and  here  again 
Ere  I  can  tell  thee  what  thou  shouldst  do  there. 

0  Constancy,  be  strong  upon  my  side ! 

Set  a  huge  mountain  'tween  my  heart  and  tongue ! 

1  have  a  man's  mind,  but  a  woman's  might. 
How  hard  it  is  for  women  to  keep  counsel ! 
Art  thou  here  yet  ? 

Luc.  Madam,  what  should  I  do? 
Run  to  the  Capitol,  and  nothing  else  ? 
And  so  return  to  you,  and  nothing  else  ? 

Por.  Yes,  bring  me  word,  boy,  if  thy  lord  look  Veil; 
For  he  went  sickly  forth :  and  take  good  note 
What  Caesar  doth,  what  suitors  press  to  him. 
Hark,  boy  !    What  noise  is  that  V 

Luc.  I  hear  none,  madam. 

Por.  Prithee,  listen  well : 
I  heard  a  bustling  rumor,  like  a  fray  ; 
And  the  wind  brings  it  from  the  Capitol. 

Luc.  Sooth,  madam,  1  hear  nothing. 

Enter  THE  SOOTHSAYER. 

Por.  Come  hither,  fellow.     Which  way  hast  thou  been  ? 

Sooth.  At  mine  own  house,  good  lady. 

Por.  What  is't  o'clock  ? 

Sooth.  About  the  ninth  hour,  lady. 

Por.  'Is  Ca3sar  yet  gone  to  the  Capitol  ? 

Sooth.  ]\Jadam,  not  yet.    I  go  to  take  my  stand 
To  see  hfni  pass  on  to  the  Capitol. 

Por.  Thou  hast  some  suit  to  Caesar ;  hast  thou  not  ? 

Sooth.  That  I  have,  lady  :  if  it  will  please  Caesar 
To  be  so  good  to  Caesar  as  to  hear  me, 
I  shall  beseech  him  to  befriend  himself. 

Por.  Why,  know'st  thou  any  harm's  intended  towards  him  ? 

Sooth.  None  that  I  know  will  be,  much  that  I  fear  may  chance. 
Good-morrow  to  you ! 

Here  the  street  is  narrow : 
The  throng  that  follows  Caesar  at  the  heels  — - 
Of  senators,  of  praetors,  common  suitors  — 
Will  crowd  a  feeble  man  almost  to  death. 
I'll  get  me  to  a  place  more  void,  and  there 
Speak  to  great  Caesar  as  he  conies  along.  [Exit. 

Por.  I  must  go  in.     All  me  !  how  weak  a  thing 
The  heart  of  woman  is  ! 


WILLIAM.  SHAKSPEARE.  589 

O  Brutus! 

The  heavens  speed  thee  in  thine  enterprise ! 
Sure  the  boy  heard  me.     Brutus  hath  a  suit 
That  Caesar  will  not  grant.     Oh  !  I  grow  faint. 
Run,  Lucius,  and  commend  me  to  my  lord ; 
Say  I  am  merry :  come  to  me  again, 
And  bring  me  word  what  he  doth  say  to  thee.  '[Exeunt. 


ACT   III. 
SCENE  I.—  The,  Same.     The  Capitol;  Ike  Senate  sitting. 

A  crowd  of  people  in  fJie  street  lending  to  the  Capitol;  among  them  ARTEMroonrs 
and  the  SOOTHSAYER.  Flourish.  Enter  CAESAR,  BRUTUS,  CASSIUS,  CASCA,  DK- 
cius,  METELLUS,  TREBONIUS,  CINNA,  ANTONY,  LEFIDUS,  POPILIUS,  PUBUUS, 
and  Others. 

Cces.  The  ides  of  March  are  come. 

Sooth.  Ay,  Caesar  ;  but  not  gone. 

Art.  Hail,  Caesar  1     Read  this  schedule. 

Dec.  Trebonius  doth  desire  you  to  o'er-read 
At  your  best  leisure  this  his  humble  suit. 

Art.  O  Caesar!  read  mine  first;  for  mine's  a  suit 
That  touches  Caesar  nearer.     Read  it,  great  Caesar. 

Cces.  What  touches  us  ourself  shall  be  last  served. 

Art.  Delay  not,  Caesar:  read  it  instantly. 

Cces.  What!  is  the  fellow  mad? 

Pub.  Sirrah,  give  place  ! 

Cos.  What !  urge  you  your  petitions  in  the  street  ? 
Come  to  the  Capitol. 

CAESAR  enters  the  Capitol,  the  rest  following.    All  the  Senators  rise. 

Pop.  I  wish  your  enterprise  to-day  may  thrive. 

Can.  What  enterprise,  Popilius  V 

Pop.  Fare  you  well !  [Advances  to  C^SAR. 

Bru.  What  said  Popilius  Lena  ? 

Cas.  He  wished  to-day  our  enterprise  might  thrive. 
I  fear  our  purpose  is  discovered. 

Bru.  Look  how  he  makes  to  Caesar !     Mark  him  ! 

Cas.  Casca,  be  sudden ;  for  we  fear  prevention. 
Brutus,  what  shall  be  done  ?     If  this  be  known, 
Cassius  on  Caesar  never  shall  turn  back ; 
For  I  will  slay  myself. 

Bru.  Cassius,  be  constant : 
Popilius  Lena  speaks  not  of  our  purposes ; 
For,  look,  he  smiles,  and  Caesar  doth  not  change. 

Cas.  Trebonius  knows  his  time ;  for,  look  you,  Brutus, 
He  draws  Mark  Antony  out  of  the  way.     [Exeunt  ANTONY  and  TREBO- 
NIUS.    CAESAR  and  the  Senators  take  their  seats. 

Dec.  Where  is  Metellus  Cimber  ?     Let  him  go, 
And  presently  prefer  his  suit  to  Caesar. 


590  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Bru.  He  is  addressed  :  press  near,  and  second  him. 
Cin.  Casca,  you  are  the  first  that  rears  your  hand. 
Casca.  Are  we  all  ready  ? 
C(Efs.  What  is  now  amiss 
That  Caesar  and  his  senate  must  redress  ? 

Met.  Most  high,  most  mighty,  and  most  puissant  Caesar, 
Mi'tellus  Cimber  throws  before  thy  seat 
A  humble  heart.  [Kneeling. 

Cces.  I  must  prevent  thee,  Cimber. 
These  crouchings  and  these  lowly  courtesies 
Alight  fire  the  blood  of  ordinary  men, 
And  turn  pre-ordinance  and  first  decree 
Into  the  law  of  children.     Be  not  fond 
To  think  that  Caesar  bears  such  rebel  blood 
That  will  be  thawed  from  the  true  quality 
"\Vith  that  which  melteth  fools :  I  mean  sweet  words, 
Low-crouched  courtesies,  and  base  spaniel-fawning. 
Thy  brother  by  decree  is  banished : 
If  thou  dost  bend  and  pray  and  lawn  for  him, 
I  spurn  thee  like  a  cur  out  of  my  way. 
Know,  Caesar  doth  not  wrong  ;  nor  without  cause 
Will  he  be  satisfied. 

Met.  Is  there  no  voice  more  worthy  than  my  own 
To  sound  more  sweetly  in  great  Caesar's  ear 
For  the  repealing  of  my  banished  brother  ? 

Bru.  I  kiss  thy  hand,  but  not  in  flattery,  Caesar; 
Desiring  thee  that  Publius  Cimber  may 
Have  an  immediate  freedom  of  repeal. 
Cces.  What,  Brutus ! 
Cos.  Pardon,  Caesar :  Cae.-ar,  pardon  : 
As  low  as  to  thy  foot  doth  Cassius  fall 
To  beg  enfranchisement  for  Publius  Cimber. 

Cces.  I  could  be  well  moved  if  I  were  as  you ; 
If  I  could  pray  to  move,  prayers  would  move  me  : 
But  I  am  constant  as  the  northern  star, 
Of  whose  true-fix^d  and  resting  quality 
There  is  no  fellow  in  the  firmament. 
The  skies  are  painted  with  unnumbered  sparks ; 
They  are  all  fire,  and  every  one  doth  shine ; 
But  there's  but  one  in  all  doth  hold  his  place  : 
So  in  the  world;  'tis  furnished  well  with  men, 
And  men  are  flesh  and  blood,  and  apprehensive; 
Yet  in  the  number  I  do  know  but  one 
That  unassailable  holds  on  his  rank, 
Unshaked  of  motion  :  and,  that  I  am  he, 
Let  me  a  little  show  it.  even  in  this, — 
That  I  was  constant  Cimber  should  be  banished, 
And  constant  do  remain  to  keep  him  so. 
Cin.   O  Caesar ! 

Cow.  Hence  !  wilt  thou  lift  up  Olympus  ? 
Dec.   Great  Caesar ! 
C(BS.  Doth  not  Brutus  bootless  kneel  ? 


WILLIAM  SHAKSPEARE.  591 

Casca.  Speak,  hands,  for  me !  [CASCA  s'ab*  C*:SAR  in  the  neck.  CJE- 
SAR  catches  hold  of  his  arm.  He  is  then  stabbed  by  several  other 
conspirators,  and  at.  last  by  MAHCUS  BKUTUS. 

Cces.  Et  tu,  Brute  I  —  Then  fall,  Ciesar !      [Dies.     The.  Senators  and 

People  retire  in  confusion. 

Cin.  Liberty !     Freedom !     Tyranny  is  dead  1  — 
Run  hence,  proclaim,  cry  it  about  the  streets. 

Cas.  Some  to  the  common  pulpits,  and  cry  out, 
"  Liberty*  freedom,  and  enfranchisement !  " 

Bru.  People  and  senators,  be  not  affrighted  ; 
Fly  not;  stand  still :  ambition's  debt  is  paid. 

Casca.  Go  to  the  pulpit,  Brutus. 

Dec.  And  Cassius  too. 

Bru.  Where's  Publius? 

Cin.  Here,  quite  confounded  with  this  mutiny. 

Mat.  Stand  fast  together,  lest  some  friend  of  Caesar's 
Should  chance  — 

Bru.  Talk  not  of  standing.     Publius,  good  cheer  1 
There  is  no  harm  intended  to  your  person, 
Nor  to  no  Roman  else :  so  tell  them,  Publius. 

Cas.  And  leave  us,  Publius,  lest  that  the  people, 
Rushing  on  us,  should  do  your  age  some  mischief. 

Bru.  Do  so ;  and  let  no  man  abide  this  deed, 
But  we  the  doers. 

Re-enter  TREBONIUS. 

Cas.  -Where's  Antony  ? 

Tre.  Fled  to  his  house  amazed. 
Men,  wives,  and  children  stare,  cry  out,  and  run, 
As  it  were  doomsday. 

Bru.  Fates !  we  will  know  your  pleasures. 
That  we  shall  die,  we  know  :  ''tis  but  the  time, 
And  drawing  days  out,  that  men  stand  upon. 

Casca.  Why,  he  that  cuts  off  twenty  years  of  life 
Cuts  off  so  many  years  of  fearing  death. 

Bru.  Grant  that,  and  then  is  death  a  benefit : 
So  are  we  Caesar's  friends,  that  have  abridged 
His  time  of  fearing  death.      Stoop,  Romans,  stoop, 
And  let  us  bathe  our  hands  in  Caesar's  blood 
Up  to  the  elbows,  and  besmear  our  swords ; 
Then  walk  we  forth,  even  to  the  market-place, 
And,  waving  our  red  weapons  o'er  our  heads, 
Let's  all  cry,  "  Peace !  Freedom  !  and  Liberty ! " 

Cas.  Stoop,  then,  and  wash.     How  many  ages  hence 
Shall  this  our  lofty  scene  be  acted  over 
In  states  unborn,  and  accents  yet  unknown  ! 

Bru.  How  many  times  shall  Caesar  bleed  in  sport, 
That  now  on  Pompey's  basis  lies  along, 
No  worthier  than  the  dust ! 

Cas.  So  oft  as  that  shall  be, 
So  often  shall  the  knot  of  us  be  called 
The  men  that  gave  their  country  liberty. 

Dec.  What,  shall  we  forth  V 
Cas.  Ay,  every  man  away  I 


592  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Brutus  shall  lead ;  and  we  will  grace  his  heels 
With  the  most  boldest  and  best  hearts  of  Rome. 

Enter  a  SERVANT. 

Bru.  Soft  !  who  comes  here  ?    A  friend  of  Antony's. 

Serv.  Thus,  Brutus,  did  my  master  bid  me  kneel ; 
Thus  did  Mark  Antony  bid  me  fall  down  ; 
And,  being  prostrate,  thus  he  bade  me  say  : 
'•  Brutus  is  noble,  wise,  valiant,  and  honest ; 
Ctesar  was  mighty,  bold,  royal,  and  loving. 
Say,  I  love  Brutus,  and  I  honor  him ; 
Say,  I  feared  Caesar,  honored  him,  and  loved  him. 
If  Brutus  will  vouchsafe  that  Antony 
May  safely  come  to  him,  and  be  resolved 
How  Caesar  hath  deserved  to  lie  in  death, 
Mark  Antony  shall  not  love  Caesar  dead 
So  well  as  Brutus  living,  but  will  follow 
The  fortunes  and  affairs  of  noble  Brutus, 
Thorough  the  hazards  of  this  untrod  state, 
With  all  true  faith."     So  says  my  master  Antony. 

Bru.  Thy  master  is  a  wise  and  valiant  Roman : 
I  never  thought  him  worse. 
Tell  him,  so  please  him  come  unto  this  place, 
He  shall  be  satisfied,  and,  by  my  honor, 
Depart  untouched. 

Serv.  I'll  fetch  him  presently.  [Exit. 

Bru.  I  know  that  we  shall  have  him  well  to  friend. 

Cos.  I  wish  we  may  :  but  yet  have  I  a  mind 
That  fears  him  much ;  and  my  misgiving  still 
Falls  shrewdly  to  the  purpose. 

Re-enter  ASTOXY. 

Bru.  But  here  comes  Antony.     Welcome.  Mark  Antony ! 

Ant.  O  mighty  Caesar  !     Dost  thou  lie  so  low  ? 
Are  all  thy  conquests,  glories,  triumphs,  spoils, 
Shrunk  to  this  little  measure?     Fare  thee  well  1 
I  know  not,  gentlemen,  what  you  intend, 
Who  else  must  be  let  blood,  who  else  is  rank : 
If  I  myself,  there  is  no  hour  so  fit 
As -Caesar's  death's  hour,  nor  no  instrument 
Of  half  that  worth  as  those  your  swords,  made  rich 
With  the  most  noble  blood  of  all  this  world. 
I  do  beseech  ye,  if  you  bear  me  hard, 
Now,  whilst  your  purpled  hands  do  reek  and  smoke, 
Fulfill  your  pleasure.     Live  a  thousand  years, 
I  shall  not  find  myself  so  apt  to  die. 
No  place  will  please  me  so,  no  mean  of  death, 
As  here  by  Caesar,  and  by  you  cut  off, 
The  choice  and  master  spirits  of  this  a<re. 

Bru.  O  Antony  !  beg  not  your  death  of  us. 
Though  now  we  must  appear  bloody  and  cruel. 


WILLIAM  SHAKSPEARE.  593 

As  by  our  hands,  and  this  our  present  act, 

You  see  we  do,  yet  see  you  but  our  hands, 

And  this  the  bleeding  business  they  have  done. 

Our  hearts  you  see  not ;  they  are  pitful ; 

And  pity  to  the  general  wrong  of  Rome 

(As  fire  drives  out  fire,  so  pity,  pity) 

Hath  done  this  deed  on  Caesar.     For  your  part, 

To  you  our  swords  have  leaden  points,  Mark  Antony: 

Our  arms,  in  strength  of  malice,  and  our  hearts, 

Of  brothers'  temper,  do  receive  you  in 

With  all  kind  love,  good  thoughts,  and  reverence. 

Cos.  Your  voice  shall  be  as  strong  as  any  man's 
In  the  disposing  of  new  dignities. 

Bru.  Only  be  patient  till  we  have  appeased 
The  multitude,  beside  themselves  with  iear, 
And  then  we  will  deliver  you  the  cause 
Why  I,  that  did  love  Caesar  when  I  struck  him, 
Have  thus  proceeded. 

Ant.  I  doubt  not  of  your  wisdom. 
Let  each  man  render  me  his  bloody  hand  : 
First,  Marcus  Brutus,  will  I  shake  with  you ; 
Next,  Cains  Cassius,  do  I  take  your  hand  ; 
Now,  Decius  Brutus,  yours  ;  now  yours,  Metellus ; 
Yours,  Cinna ;  and,  my  valiant  Casca,  yours  ; 
Though  last,  not  least  in  love,  yours,  good  Trebonius. 
Gentlemen  all,  —  alas  !  what  shall  I  say  ? 
My  credit  now  stands  on  such  slippery  ground, 
That  one  of  two  bad  ways  you  must  conceit  me,  — 
Either  a  coward  or  a  flatterer.  — 
That  I  did  love  thee,  Caesar,  oh  !  'tis  true  : 
If  then  thy  spirit  look  upon  us  now, 
Shall  it  not  grieve  thee,  dearer  than  thy  death, 
To  see  thy  Antony  making  his  peace, 
Shaking  the  bloody  fingers  of  thy  foes, 
Most  noble  !  in  the  presence  of  thy  corse  ? 
Had  I  as  many  eyes  as  thou  hast  wounds, 
Weeping  as  fast  as  they  stream  forth  thy  blood, 
It  would  become  me  better  than  to  close 
In  terms  of  friendship  with  thine  enemies. 
Pardon  me,  Julius !     Here  wast  thou  bayed,  brave  hart. 
Here  didst  thou  fall ;  and  here  thy  hunters  stand, 
Signed  in  thy  spoil,  and  crimsoned  in  thy  lethe. 
O  world  !  thou  wast  the  forest  to  this  hart ; 
And  this,  indeed,  O  world !  the  heart  of  thee. 
How  like  a  deer,  strucken  by  many  princes, 
Dost  thou  here  lie  ! 

Cos.  Mark  Antony  ! 

Ant.  Pardon  me,  Caius  Cassius  : 
The  enemies  of  Caesar  shall  say  this : 
Then  in  a  friend  it  is  cold  modesty. 

Cas.  I  blame  you  not  for  praising  Caesar  so. 
But  what  compact  mean  you  to  have  with  us? 


594  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Will  you  be  pricked  in  number  of  our  friends  ? 
Or  shall  we  OP,  and  not  depend  on  you  ? 

Ant.  Therefore  I  took  your  hands^but  was,  indeed, 
Swayed  from  the  point  by  looking  down  on  Cassiir. 
Friends  am  I  with  you  all,  and  love  you  all,  — 
Upon  this  hope,  that  you  shall  give  me  reasons 
Why  and  wherein  Caesar  was  dangerous. 

Bru.  Or  else  were  this  a  savage  spectacle. 
Our  reasons  are  so  full  of  good  regard, 
That  were  you,  Antony,  the  son  of  Caesar, 
You  should  be  satisfied. 

Ant.  That's  all  I  seek: 
And  am,  moreover,  suitor  that  I  may 
Produce  his  body  to  the  market-place  ; 
And  in  the  pulpit,  as  becomes  a  friend, 
Speak  in  the  order  of  his  funeral. 

Bru.  You  shall,  Mark  Antony. 

Cos.  Brutus,  a  word  with  you. 
You  know  not  what  you  do.     Do  not  consent 
That  Antony  speak  in  his  funeral. 
Know  you  how  much  the  people  may  be  moved 
By  that  which  he  will  utter  ? 

Bru.  By  your  pardon, 
I  will  myself  into  the  pulpit  first, 
And  show  the  reason  of  our  Caesar's  death  : 
What  Antony  shall  speak,  I  will  protest 
He  speaks  by  leave  and  by  permission  ; 
And  that  we  are  contented  Caesar  shall 
Have  all  true  rites  and  lawful  ceremonies. 
It  shall  advantage  more  than  do  us  wrong. 

Ca.s.  I  know  not  what  may  fall :  I  like  it  not. 

Bru.  Mark  Antony,  here,  take  you  Caesar's  body. 
You  shall  not  in  your  funeral-speech  blame  us, 
But  speak  all  good  you  can  devise  of  Cajsar ; 
And  say  you  do't  by  our  permission  : 
Else  shall  you  not  have  any  hand  at  all  • 

About  his  funeral.     And  you  shall  speak 
In  the  same  pulpit  whereto  I  am  going, 
After  my  speech  is  ended. 

Ant.  fee  it  so: 
I  do  desire  no  more. 

Bru.  Prepare  the  body,  then,  and  follow  us.    [Exeunt  all  but  ANTONY. 

Ant.  Oh.  pardon  me,  thou  bleeding  piece  of  earth, 
That  I  am  meek  and  gentle  with  these  butchers  ! 
Thou  art  the  ruins  of  the  noblest  man 
That  ever  lived  in  the  tide  of  times. 
Woe  to  the  hand  that  shed  this  costly  blood ! 
Over  thy  wounds  now  do  I  prophesy." — 
Which,  like  dumb  mouths,  do  ope  their  ruby  lips 
To  beg  the  voice  and  utterance  of  my  tongue,  — 
A  curse  shall  light  upon  the  limbs  of 'men  ; 
Domestic  fury  and  fierce  civil  strife 


WILLIAM  SIIAKSPEARE. 

Shall  cumber  all  the  parts  of  Italy  ; 
Blood  and  destruction  shall  be  so  in  use, 
And  dreadful  objects  so  familiar, 
That  mothers  shall  but  smile  when  they  behold 
Their  offspring  quartered  with  the  hands  of  war; 
All  pity  choked  with  custom  of  fell  deeds ; 
And  Caesar's  spirit,  ranging  for  revenge, 
With  Ate  by  his  side  come  hot  from  hell, 
Shall  in  these  confines  with  a  monarch's  voice 
Cry  "  Havoc  !  "  and  let  slip  the  dogs  of  war ; 
That  this  foul  deed  shall  smell  above  the  earth, 
With  carrion  men  groaning  for  burial. 

Enter  a  SERVANT. 

You  serve  Octavius  Caesar ;  do  you  not  ? 

Serv.  I  do,  Mark  Antony. 

Ant.  Caesar  did  write  for  him  to  come  to  Rome. 

Serv.  He  did  receive  his  letters,  and  is  coming; 
And  bid  me  say  to  you  by  word  of  mouth  — 
O  Caesar  !  —  [Seeing  the  body. 

Ant.  Thy  heart  is  big  :  get  thee  apart  and  weep. 
Passion,  I  see,  is  catching;  for  mine  eyes, 
Seeing  tho.°e  beads  of  sorrow  stand  in  thine, 
Began  to  water.     Is  thy  master  coming  ? 

Serv.  He  lies  to-night  within  seven  leagues  of  Rome. 

Ant.  Post  back  with  speed,  and  tell  him  what  hath  chanced. 
Here  is  a  mourning  Rome,  a  dangerous  Rome ; 
No  Rome  of  safety  for  Octavius  yet : 
Hie  hence,  and  tell  him  so.    Yet  stay  a  while ; 
Thou  shalt  not  back  till  I  have  borne  this  corse 
Into  the  market-place  :  there  shall  I  try 
In  my  oration  how  the  people  take 
The  cruel  issue  of  these  bloody  men ; 
According  to  the  which  thou  shalt  discourse 
To  young  Octavius  of  the  state  of  things. 
Lend  me  your  hand.  [Exeunt  with  CAESAR'S  body. 

SCENE  II.  —  The  Same.     The  Forum. 
Enter  BRUTUS  and  CASSIUS,  and  a  throny  of  CITIZENS. 

Cit.  We  will  be  satisfied  ;  let  us  be  satisfied. 

Bru.  Then  follow  me,  and  give  me  audience,  friends. 
Cassius,  go  you  into  the  other  street, 
And  part  the  numbers. 

Those  that  will  hear  me  speak,  let  them  stay  here  ; 
Those  that  will  follow  Cassius,  go  with  him ; 
And  public  reasons  shall  be  rendered 
Of  Caesar's  death. 

1  Cit.  I  will  hear  Brutus  speak. 

2  Cit.  I  will  hear  Cassius,  and  compare  their  reasons 

When  severally  we  hear  them  rendered.         [Exit  CASSIUS  with  xorne  of 
the  CITIZENS.     BRUTUS  goes  into  the  rostrum. 


596  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

3  Cit.  The  noble  Brutus  is  ascended.     Silence ! 

Bru.  Be  patient  till  the  last. 

Romans,  countrymen,  and  lovers,  hear  me  for  my  cause ;  and  be  silent, 
that  ye  may  hear :  believe  me  for  mine  honor ;  and  have  respect  to 
mine  'honor,  that  you  may  believe  :  censure  me  in  your  wisdom ;  and 
awake  your  senses,  that  you  may  the  better  judge.  If  there  be  any 
in  this  assembly,  any  dear  friend  of  Csesar's,  to  him  I  say  that  Brutus' 
love  to  Caesar  was  no  less  than  his.  If,  then,  that  friend  demand 
why  Brutus  rose  against  Caesar,  this  is  my  answer :  "  Not  that  I  loved 
Caesar  less,  but  that  I  loved  Rome  more."  Had  you  rather  Caesar  were 
living,  and  die  all  slaves,  than  that  Caesar  were  dead,  to  live  all  free- 
men? As  Caesar  loved  me,  I  weep  for  him;  as  he  was  fortunate,  \ 
rejoice  at  it ;  as  he  was  valiant,  I  honor  him :  but,  as  he  was  ambitious, 
I  slew  him.  There  is  tears  for  his  love,  joy  for  his  fortune,  honor 
for  his  valor,  and  death  for  his  ambition.  Who  is  here  so  base  that 
would  be  a  bondman  ?  If  any,  speak  :  for  him  have  I  offended.  Who 
is  here  so  rude  that  would  not  be  a  Roman  ?  If  any,  speak :  for  him 
have  I  offended.  Who  is  here  so  vile  that  will  not  love  his  country  ? 
If  any,  speak  :  for  him  have  I  offended.  I  pause  for  a  reply. 

Cit.  None,  Brutus,  none !  [Several  speaking  at  once. 

Bru.  Then  none  have  I  offended.  I  have  done  no  more  to  Cagsar 
than  you  shall  do  to  Brutus.  The  question  of  his  death  is  enrolled 
in  the  Capitol :  his  glory  not  extenuated,  wherein  he  was  worthy ;  nor 
his  offenses  enforced,  for  which  he  suffered  death. 

Enter  AXTOXY  and  others  icith  CAESAR'S  body. 

Here  comes  his  body,  mourned  by  Mark  Antony,  who,  though  he  had 
no  hand  in  his  death,  shall  receive  the  benefit  of  his  dying,  —  a  place  in 
the  commonwealth  ;  as  which  of  you  shall  not  ?  With  this  I  depart,  — 
that,  as  I  slew  my  best  lover  for  the  good  of  Rome,  I  have  the  same 
dagger  for  myself  when  it  shall  please  my  country  to  need  my  death. 
Cit.  Live,  Brutus,  live !  live  ! 

1  Cit.  Bring  him  with  triumph  home  unto  his  house. 

2  Cit.  Give  him  a  statue  with  his  ancestors. 

3  Cit.  Let  him  be  Caesar. 

4  Cit.  Caesar's  better  parts 
Shall  now  be  crowned  in  Brutus. 

1  Cit.  We'll  bring  him  to  his  house  with  shouts  and  clamors. 
Bru.  My  countrymen ! 

2  Cit.  Peace,  silence  !     Brutus  speaks. 
1  Cit.  Peace,  ho  ! 

Bru.  Good  countrymen,  let  me  depart  alone, 
And  for  my  sake  stay  here  with  Antony : 
Do  grace  to  Caesar's  corpse,  and  grace  his  speech 
Tending  to  Caesar's  glories ;  which  Mark  Antony, 
By  our  permission,  is  allowed  to  make. 
1  do  entreat  you,  not  a  man  depart, 
Save  I  alone,  till  Antony  have  spoke.  [Exit. 

1  Cit.  Stay,  ho  !  and  let  us  hear  Mark  Antony. 

3  Cit.  Let  him  go  up  into  the  public  chair  : 
We'll  hear  him.      Noble  Antony,  go  up. 

Ant.  For  Brutus'  sake,  I  am  beholden  to  you. 


WILLIAM   SHAKSPEAKE.  597 

4  Cit.  What  does  he  say  of  Brutus  ? 

3  Cit.  He  says,  for  Brutus'  bake, 
He  finds  himself  beholden  to  us  all. 

4  Cit.  'Twere  best  he  speak  no  harm  of  Brutus  here. 

1  Cit.  This  Caesar  was  a  tyrant. 
3  Cit.  Nay,  that's  certain  : 

We  are  blest  that  Rome  is  rid  of  him. 

2  Cit.  Peace  !  let  us  hear  what  Antony  can  say. 
Ant.  You  gentle  Romans  — 

Cit.  Peace,  ho  !  let  us  hear  him. 

Ant.  Friends,  Romans,  countrymen,  lend  me  your  ears  : 
I  come  to  bury  Caesar,  not  to  praise  him. 
The  evil  that  men  do  lives  after  them ; 
The  good  is  oft  interred  with  their  bones : 
So  let  it  be  with  Caesar.     The  noble  Brutus 
Hath  told  you  Caesar  was  ambitious : 
If  it  were  so,  it  was  a  grievous  fault, 
And  grievously  hath  Caesar  answered  it. 
Here,  under  leave  of  Brutus  and  the  rest, 
(For  Brutus  is  an  honorable  man ; 
So  are  they  all,  all  honorable  men,) 
Come  I  to  speak  in  Caesar's  funeral. 
He  was  my  friend,  faithful  and  just  to  me  : 
But  Brutus  says  he  was  ambitious ; 
And  Brutus  is  an  honorable  man. 
He  hath  brought  many  captives  home  to  Rome, 
Whose  ransoms  did  the  general  coffers  fill : 
Did  this  in  Caesar  seem  ambitious  ? 
When  that  the  poor  hath  cried,  Caesar  hath  wept : 
Ambition  should  be  made  of  sterner  stuff: 
Yet  Brutus,  says  he  was  ambitious ; 
And  Brutus  is  an  honorable  man. 
You  all  did  see,  that  on  the  Lupercal 
I  thrice  presented  him  a  kingly  crown, 
Which  he  did  thrice  refuse.     Was  this  ambition? 
Yet  Brutus  says  he  was  ambitious  ; 
And,  sure,  he  is  an  honorable  man. 
I  speak  not  to  disprove  what  Brutus  spoke  ; 
But  here  I  am  to  speak  what  I  do  know. 
You  all  did  love  him  once,  not  without  cause : 
What  cause  withholds  you,  then,  to  mourn  for  him  ? 

0  judgment,  thou  art  fled  to  brutish  beasts, 

And  men  have  lost  their  reason  1     Bear  with  me : 
My  heart  is  in  the  coffin  there  with  Caesar, 
And  I  must  pause  till  it  come  back  to  me. 

1  Cit.  Methinks  there  is  much  reason  in  his  sayings. 

2  Cit.  If  thou  consider  rightly  of  the  matter, 
Caesar  has  had  great  wrongs. 

3  Cit.  Has  he  not,  masters  ? 

1  fear  there  will  a  worse  come  in  his  place. 

4  Cit.  Marked  ye  his  words  ?     He  would  not  take  the  crown  : 
Therefore,  'tis  certain,  he  was  not  ambitious. 


598  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

1  Cit.  If  it  be  found  so,  some  will  dear  abide  it. 

2  Cit.  Poor  soul !  his  eyes  are  red  as.  fire  with  weeping. 

3  Cit.  There's  not  a  nobler  man  in  Rome  than  Antony. 

4  Cit.  Now  mark  him  :  he  begins  again  to  speak. 
Ant.  But  yesterday,  the  word  of  Caesar  might 

Have  stood  against  the  world :  now  lies  he  there, 
And  none  so  poor  to  do  him  reverence. 

0  masters !  if  I  were  disposed  to  stir 
Your  hearts  and  minds  to  mutiny  and  rage, 

1  should  do  Brutus  wrong,  and  Cassius  wrong, 
Who.  you  all  know,  are  honorable  men : 

I  will  not  do  them  wrong ;  I  rather  choose 

To  wrong  the  dead,  to  wrong  myself,  and  you, 

Than  I  will  wrong  such  honorable  men. 

But  here's  a  parchment  with  the  seal  of  Ca3sar ; 

I  found  it  in  his  closet :  'tis  his  will. 

Let  but  the  commons  hear  this  testament, 

(Which,  pardon  me,  I  do  not  mean  to  read.) 

And  they  would  go  and  kiss  dead  Cesar's  wounds, 

And  dip  their  napkins  in  his  sacred  blood ; 

Yea,  beg  a  hair  of  him  for  memory, 

And,  dying,  mention  it  within  their  wills, 

Bequeathing  it  as  a  rich  legacy 

Unto  their  issue. 

4  Cit.  We'll  hear  the  will.     Read  it,  Mark  Antony. 

Cit.  The  will,  the  will !     We  will  hear  Csesar's  will. 

Ant.  Have  patience,  gentle  friends;  I  must  not  read  it: 
It  is  not  meet  you  know  how  Caesar  loved  you. 
You  are  not  wood,  you  are  not  stones,  but  men ; 
And  being  men,  hearing  the  will  of  Ca?sar, 
It  will  inflame  you;  it  will  make  you  mad. 
Tis  good  you  know  not  that  you  are  his  heirs  ; 
'For.  if  you  should,  oh  !  what  would  come  of  it  ? 

4  Cit'  Read  the  will !    We  will  hear  it,  Antony :  you  shall  read  us  the 
will,  —  Caesar's  will ! 

Ant.  Will  you  be  patient  ?     Will  you  stay  a  while? 
I  have  o'ershot  myself  to  tell  you  of  it. 
I  fear  I  wrong  the  honorable  men 
Whose  daggers  have  stabbed  Caesar :  I  do  fear  it. 

4  Cit.  They  were  traitors !     Honorable  men  I 

Cit.  The  w'ill !  the  testament ! 

2  Cit.  They  were  villains,  murderers !     The  will ! 
Read  the  will ! 

Ant.  You  will  compel  me,  then,  to  read  the  will  ? 
Then  make  a  ring  about  the  corpse  of  Caesar, 
And  let  me  show  you  him  that  made  the  will. 
Shall  I  descend  V  and  will  you  give  me  leave  ? 

Cit.  Come  down. 

2  Cit.  Descend.  \IIe  comes  down  from  the  pulpit. 

3  Cit.  You  shall  have  leave. 

4  Cit.  A  ring :  stand  round. 

1  Cit.  Stand  from  the  hearse ;  stand  from  the  body. 


WILLIAM  SHAKSPEARE.  599 

2  Clt.  Eoom  for  Antony !  —  most  noble  Antony  1 

Ant.  Nay,  press  not  so  upon  me  :  stand  far  ofl*. 

Cit.  Stand  back  !  room !  bear  back  ! 

Ant.  If  you  have  tears,  prepare  to  shed  them  now. 
You  all  do  know  this  mantle.     I  remember 
The  first  time  ever  Caesar  put  it  on  : 
'Twas  on  a  summer's  evening,  in  his  tent, 
That  day  he  overcame  the  Nervii. 
Look  1  in  this  place  ran  Cassius'  dagger  through ; 
See  what  a  rent  the  envious  Casca  made  ! 
Through  this  the  well-beloved  Brutus  stabbed ; 
And,  as  he  plucked  his  cursed  steel  away, 
Mark  how  the  blood  of  Caesar  followed  it, 
As  rushing  out  of  doors  to  be  resolved 
If  Brutus  so  unkindly  knocked,  or  no ; 
For  Brutus,  as  you  know,  was  Cassar's  angel : 
Judge,  O  you  gods,  how  dearly  Caesar  loved  him  1 
This  was  the  most  unkindest  cut  of  all ; 
For,  when  the  noble  Caesar  saw  him  stab, 
Ingratitude,  more  strong  than  traitors'  arms, 
Quite  vanquished  him  :  then  burst  his  mighty  heart ; 
And  in  his  mantle  muffling  up  his  face, 
E'en  at  the  base  of  Pompey's  statua, 
Which  all  the  while  ran  blood,  great  Cassar  fell. 
Oh,  what  a  fall  was  there,  my  countrymen  ! 
Then  I,  and  you,  and  all  of  us,  fell  down, 
Whilst  bloody  treason  flourished  over  us. 
Oh !  now  you  weep ;  and,  I  perceive,  you  feel 
The  dint  of  pity :  these  are  gracious  drops. 
Kind  souls,  what !  weep  y.ou  when  you  but  behold 
Our  Caesar's  vesture  wounded  ?     Look  you  here  ! 
Here  is  himself,  marred,  as  you  see,  with  traitors. 

1  Cit.  O  piteous  spectacle  1 

2  Cit.  O  noble  Caesar ! 

3  Cit.  O  woeful  day  ! 

4  Cit.  O  traitors,  villains ! 

1  Cit.  O  most  bloody  sight! 

2  Cit.  We  will  be  revenged  :  revenge  I  about,  —  seek,  —  burn,  —  fire, 
—  kill,  —  slay !  —  let  not  a  traitor  live  I 

Ant.  Stay,  countrymen ! 

1  Cit.  Peace  there !  —  hear  the  noble  Antony. 

2  Cit.  We'll  hear  him  ;  we'll  follow  him ;  we'll  die  with  him. 
Ant.  Good  friends,  sweet  friends,  let  me  not  stir  you  up 

To  such  a  sudden  flood  of  mutiny. 

They  that  have  done  this  deed  are  honorable : 

What  private  griefs  they  have,  alas  !  I  know  not, 

That  made  them  do  it :  they  are  wise  and  honorable, 

And  will,  no  doubt,  with  reasons  answer  you. 

I  come  not,  friends,  to  steal  away  your  hearts : 

I  am  no  orator,  as  Brutus  is, 

But,  as  you  know  me  all,  a  plain,  blunt  man, 

That  love  my  friend ;  and  that  they  know  full  well 


600  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

That  gave  me  public  leave  to  speak  of  him. 
For  I  have  neither  wit  nor  words  nor  worth, 
Action  nor  utterance,  nor  the  power  of  speech, 
To  stir  men's  blood  :  I  only  speak  right  on  ; 
I  tell  you  that  which  you  yourselves  do  know ; 
Show  you  sweet  Caesar's  wounds,  poor,  poor  dumb  mouths, 
And  bid  them  speak  for  me.     But  were  I  Brutus, 
And  Brutus  Antony,  there  were  an  Antony 
Would  ruffle  up  your  spirits,  and  put  a  tongue 
In  every  wound  of  Caesar,  that  should  move 
The  stones  of  Rome  to  rise  and  mutiny. 
Cit.  We'll  mutiny. 

1  Cit.  We'll  burn  the  house  of  Brutus. 

3  Cit.  Away,  then  !  come,  seek  the  conspirators. 

Ant.  Yet  hear  me,  countrymen  ;  yet  hear  me  speak. 

Cit.  Peace,  ho  !     Hear  Antony,  most  noble  Antony. 

Ant.  Why,  friends,  you  go  to  do  you  know  not  what. 
Wherein  hath  Caesar  thus  deserved  your  loves  ? 
Alas !  you  know  not :  I  must  tell  you  then. 
You  have  forgot  the  will  I  told  you  of. 

Cit.  Most  true  !     The  will :  let's  stay,  and  hear  the  will. 

Ant.  Here  is  the  will,  and  under  Caesar's  seal. 
To  every  Roman  citizen  he  gives, 
To  every  several  man,  seventy-five  drachmas. 

2  Cit.  Most  noble  Caesar!  —  we'll  revenge  his  death. 

3  Cit.  O  royal  Caesar! 

A  nt.  Hear  me  with  patience. 

Cit.  Peace,  ho ! 

Ant.  Moreover,  he  hath  left  you  all  his  walks, 
His  private  arbors,  and  new-planted  orchards, 
On  this  side  Tiber :  he  hath  left  them  you, 
And  to  your  heirs  for  ever ;  common  pleasures, 
To  walk  abroad,  and  recreate  yourselves. 
Here  was  a  Caesar :  when  comes  such  another  ? 

1  Cit.  Never,  never !     Come,  away,  away ! 
We'll  burn  his  body  in  the  holy  place, 

And  with  the  brands  fire  the  traitors'  houses. 
Take  up  the  body. 

2  Cit.  Go,  fetch  fire. 

3  Cit.  Pluck  down  benches. 

4  Cit.  Pluck  down  forms,  windows,  any  thing.      [Exeunt   CITIZENS 

with  the  body. 

Ant.  Now  let  it  work.     Mischief,  thou  art  afoot ! 
Take  thou  what  course  thou  wilt !     How  now,  fellow  ? 

Enter  a  SERVAITT. 

Serv.  Sir,  Octavius  is  already  come  to  Rome. 

Ant.  Where  is  he? 

Serv.  He  and  Lepidus  are  at  Caesar's  house. 

Ant.  And  thither  will  I  straight  to  visit  him. 
He  comes  upon  a  wish.     Fortune  is  merry, 
And  in  this  mood  will  give  us  any  thing. 


WILLIAM  SHAKSPEAIiE.  G01 

Serv.  I  heard  him  say,  Brutus  and  Cassius 
Are  rid  like  madmen  through  the  gates  of  Rome. 

Ant.  Belike  they  had  some  notice  of  the  people, 
How  I  had  moved  them.     Bring  me  to  Octavius.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.  —  The  Same.    A  Street. 
Enter  CINNA,  the  poet. 

Cin.  I  dreamt  to-night  that  I  did  feast  with  Ca3sar, 
And  things  unluckily  charge  my  fantasy. 
I  have  no  will  to  wander  forth  of  doors ; 
Yet  something  leads  me  forth. 

Enter  CITIZENS. 

1  Cit.  What  is  your  name  ? 

2  Cit.  Whither  are  you  going  ? 

3  Cit.  Where  do  you  dwell  ? 

4  Cit.  Are  you  a  married  man,  or  a  bachelor  ? 

2  Cit.  Answer  every  man  directly. 
1  Cit.  Ay,  and  briefly. 

4  Cit.  Ay,  and  wisely. 

3  Cit.  Ay,  and  truly,  you  were  best. 

Cin.  What  is  my  name  ?  Whither  am  I  jroing  ?  Where  do  I  dwell  ? 
Am  I  a  married  man,  or  a  bachelor  V  Then  to  answer  every  man 
directly  and  briefly,  wisely  and  truly.  Wisely,  I  say,  I  am  a  bachelor. 

Cit.  That's  as  much  as  to  say  they  are  fools  that  marry :  you'll  bear 
me  a  bang  for  that,  I  fear.  Proceed,  — directly. 

Cin.  Directly,  I  am  going  to  Cesar's  funeral. 

1  Cit.  As  a  friend,  or  an  enemy  ? 
Cin.  As  a  friend. 

2  Cit.  That  matter  is  answered  directly. 

4  Cit.  For  your  dwelling,  —  briefly. 
Cin.  Briefly,  I  dwell  by  the  Capitol. 

3  Cit.  Your  name,  sir,  —  truly. 
Cin.  Truly,  my  name  is  Cinna. 

1  Cit.  Tear  him  to  pieces !  he's  a  conspirator ! 
Cin.  I  am  Cinna  the  poet !  I  am  Cinna  the  poet ! 

4  Cit.  Tear  him  for  his  bad  verses !  tear  him  for  his  bad  verses  I 
Cin.  I  am  not  Cinna  the  conspirator ! 

2  Cit.  It  is  no  matter ;  his  name's  Cinna :  pluck  but  his  name  out  of 
his  heart,  and  turn  him  going ! 

3  Cit.    Tear  him,  tear  him  !      Come,  brands,  ho !    fire-brands !      To 
Brutus',  to   Cassius' ;    burn  all  I     Some  to  Decius'  house,  and  some  to 
Casca's;  some  to  Ligarius':  away!  go!  [Exeunt. 


ACT  IV. 

SCENE  I.  —  The  Same.    A  Room  in  ANTONY'S  House.    ANTONY,  OCTAVIUS,  and 
LEPIDUS,  seated  at  a  Table. 

Ant.  T^hese  many,  then,  shall  die :  their  names  are  pricked. 
Oct.  Your  brother,  too,  must  die.     Consent  you,  Lepidus  V 


602  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Lep.  I  do  consent. 

Oct.  Prick  him  down,  Antony. 

Lep.  Upon  condition  Publius  shall  not  live, 
Who  is  your  sister's  son,  Mark  Antony, 

Ant.  He  shall  not  live  :  look,  with  a  spot  I  damn  him. 
But,  Lepidus,  go  you  to  Cassar's  house ; 
Fetch  the  will  hither,  and  we  shall  determine 
How  to  cut  off  some  charge  in  legacies. 

Lep.  What,  shall  I  find  vou  here? 

Oct.  Or  here,  or  at  the  Capitol.  [Exit  LEPIDUS 

Ant.  This  is  a  slight  unineritable  man, 
Meet  to  be  sent  on  errands  :  is  it  fit, 
The  threefold  world  divided,  he  should  stand 
One  of  the  three  to  share  it  ? 

Oct.  So  you  thought  him, 

And  took  his  voice  who  should  be  pricked  to  die 
In  our  black  sentence  and  proscription. 

Ant.  Octavius,  I  have  seen  more  days  than  you; 
And,  though  we  lay  these  honors  on  this  man 
To  ease  ourselves  of  divers  slanderous  loads, 
He  shall  but  bear  them  as  the  ass  bears  gold,  — 
To  groan  and  sweat  under  the  business, 
Either  led  or  driven,  as  we  point  the  way ; 
And,  having  brought  our  treasure  where  we  will, 
Then  take  we  down  his  load,  and  turn  him  off, 
Like  to  the  empty  ass,  to  shake  his  ears, 
And  graze  on  commons. 

Oct.  You  may  do  your  will ; 
But  he's  a  tried  and  valiant  soldier. 

Ant.  So  is  my  horse,  Octavius;  and  for  that 
I  do  appoint  him  store  of  provender. 
It  is  a  creature  that  I  teach  to  fight, 
To  wind,  to  stop,  to  run  directly  on ; 
His  corporal  motion  governed  by  my  spirit. 
And  in  some  taste  is  Lepidus  but  so: 
He  must  be  taught  and  trained,  and  bid  go  forth ; 
A  barren-spirited  fellow;  one  that  feeds 
On  objects,  arts,  and  imitations, 
Which,  out  of  use,  and  staled  by  other  men, 
Begin  his  fashion.     Do  not  talk  "of  him 
But  as  a  property. 

And  now,  Octavius, 

Listen  great  things.     Brutus  and  Cassius 
Are  levying  powers  ;  we  must  straight  make  head  : 
Therefore  let  our  alliance  be  combined, 
Our  best  friends  made,  and  our  best  means  stretched  out ; 
And  let  us  presently  go  sit  in  council, 
How  covert  matters  may  be  best  disclosed, 
And  open  perils  surest  answered. 

Oct.  Let  us  do  so :  for  we  are  at  the  stake, 
And  bayed  about  with  many  enemies  ; 
And  some  that  smile  have  in  their  hearts,  I  fear, 
Millions  of  mischief.  [Exeunt. 


WILLIAM  SHAKSPEARE.  603 

SCENE  II.  —  Before  BRUTUS'  Tent,  in  the  Camp  near  Sardlt. 

Drum.    Enter  BRUTUS,  LUCILIUS,  TITINIUS,  awl  SoMert;  PINDAKUS  meetinn 
them;  Lucius  at  a  distance. 

Bru.  Stand,  ho ! 

Lucil.  Give  the  word,  ho  !  and  stand. 

Bru.  What  now,  Lucilius  ?     Is  Cassius  near  ? 

Lucil.  He  is  at  hand ;  and  Pindarus  is  come 
To  do  you  salutation  from  his  master. 

[PINDARUS  gives  a  letter  to  BRUTUS. 

Bru.  He  greets  me  well.     Your  master,  Pindarus, 
In  his  own  charge,  or  by  ill  officers, 
Hath  given  me  some  worthy  cause  to  wish 
Things  done  undone  ;  but,  if  he  be  at  hand, 
I  shall  be  satisfied. 

Pin.  I  do  not  doubt 
But  that  my  noble  master  will  appear 
Such  as  he  is,  full  of  regard  and  honor. 

Bru.  He  is  not  doubted.     A  word,  Lucilius : 
How  he  received  you,  let  me  be  resolved. 

Lucil.  With  courtesy,  and  with  respect  enough, 
But  not  with  such  familiar  instances, 
Nor  with  such  free  and  friendly  conference, 
As  he  haih  used  of  old. 

Bru.  Thou  hast  described 
A  hot  friend  cooling.     Ever  note,  Lucilius, 
When  love  begins  to  sicken  and  decay, 
It  useth  an  enforced  ceremony. 
There  are  no  tricks  in  plain  and  simple  faith : 
But  hollow  men,  like  horses  hot  at  hand, 
Make  gallant  show  and  promise  of  their  mettle ; 
But,  when  they  should  endure  the  bloody  spur, 
They  fall  their  crests,  and,  like  deceitful  jades, 
Sink  in  the  trial.     Comes  his  army  on  ? 

Lucil.  They  mean  this  ni^ht  in  Sardis  to  be  quartered  : 
The  greater  part,  the  horse  in  general, 
Are  come  with  Cassius.  [March  within. 

Bru.  Hark  !  he  is  arrived  : 
March  gently  on  to  meet  him. 

Enter  CASSIUS  and  Soldiers. 

Cas.  Stand,  ho ! 

Bru.  Stand,  ho !     Speak  the  word  along. 

[Wi&in.l     Stand! 

[Within.]     Stand! 

[Within.]     Stand! 

Cas.  Most  noble  brother,  you  have  done  me  wrong. 

Bru.  Judge  me,  you  gods  !     Wrong  I  mine  enemies  ? 
And,  if  not  so,  how  should  I  wrong  a  brother? 

Cas.  Brutus,  this  sober  form  of  yours  hides  wrongs ; 
And  when  you  do  them  — 

Bru.  Cassius,  be  content ; 


G04  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Speak  your  griefs  softly :  I  do  know  you  well. 
Before  the  eyes  of  both  our  armies  here, 
Which  should  perceive  nothing  but  lo.ve  from  us, 
Let  us  not  wrangle.     Bid  them  move  away : 
Then  in  my  tent,  Cassius,  enlarge  your  griefs, 
And  I  will  give  you  audience. 

Cos.  Pindarus, 

Bid  our  commanders  lead  their  charges  off 
A  little  from  this  ground. 

Bru.  Lucilius,  do  the  like  ;  and  let  no  man 
Come  to  our  tent  till  we  have  done  our  conference. 
Let  Lucius  and  Titinius  guard  our  door.  \Exeunt. 

* 

SCENE  III.  —  Within  the  Tent  of  BRUTUS. 

Enter  BRUTUS  and  CASSIUS. 

Cas.  That  you  have  wronged  me  doth  appear  in  this  : 
You  have  condemned  and  noted  Lucius  Peila 
For  taking  bribes  here  of  the  Sardians ; 
Wherein  my  letters,  praying  on  his  side, 
Because  I  knew  the  man,  were  slighted  off. 

Bru.   You  wronged  yourself  to  write  in  such  a  case. 

Cas.  In  such  a  time  as  this,  it  is  not  meet 
That  every  nice  offense  should  bear  his  comment. 

Bru.  Let  me  tell  you,  Cassius,  you  yourself 
Are  much  condemned  to  have  an  itching  palm, 
To  sell  and  mart  your  offices  for  gold 
To  undeservers. 

Cas.  I  an  itching  palm  ? 

You  know  that  you  are  Brutus  that  speaks  this, 
Or,  by  the  gods,  this  speech  were  else  your  last ! 

Bru.  The  name  of  Cassius  honors  this  corruption  ; 
And  chastisement  doth  therefore  hide  his  head. 

Cas.  Chastisement ! 

Bru.  Remember  March !  the  ides  of  March  remember ! 
Did  not  great  Caesar  bleed  for  justice'  sake? 
What  villain  touched  his  body,  that  did  stab, 
And  not  for  justice  ?     What !  shall  one  of  us, 
That  struck  the  foremost  man  of  all  this  world 
But  for  supporting  robbers,  —  shall  we  now 
Contaminate  our  fingers  with  base  bribes, 
And  sell  the  mighty  space  of  our  large  honors 
For  so  much  trash  as  may  be  grasped  thus  ? 
I  had  rather  be  a  dog,  and  bay  the  moon, 
Than  such  a  Roman. 

Cas.  Brutus,  bay  not  me ; 
I'll  not  endure  it :  you  forget  yourself, 
To  hedge  me  in.     I  am  a  soldier,  I, 
Older  in  practice,  abler  than  yourself 
To  make  conditions. 

Bru.  Go  to ;  you  are  not,  Cassius. 

Cas.  I  am. 


WILLIAM  SHAKSPEARE.  G05 

Bru.  I  say  you  are  not. 

Cos.  Urge  me  no  more  :  I  shall  forget  myself. 
Have  mind  upon  your  health :  tempt  me  no  further. 

Bru.  Away,  slight  man ! 

Cas.  Is't  possible  ? 

Bru.  Hear  me ;  for  I  will  speak. 
Must  I  ojive  way  and  room  to  your  rash  choler  ? 
Shall  I  be  frighted  when  a  madman  stares  V 

Cas.  O  ye  gods  !  ye  gods !     Must  I  endure  all  this  ? 

Bru.  All  this  ?  ay,  more  !     Fret  till  your  proud  heart  break ; 
Go  show  your  slaves  how  choleric  you  are, 
And  make  your  bondmen  tremble.     Mu?t  I  budge  ? 
Must  I  observe  you  ?     Must  I  stand  and  crouch ° 
Under  your  testy  humor  ?     By  the  gods, 
You  shall  digest  the  venom  of  your  spleen, 
Though  it  do  split  you ;  for,  from  this  day  forth, 
I'll  use  you  for  my  mirth,  yea,  for  my  laughter, 
When  you  are  waspish. 

Cas.  Is  it  come  to  this  ? 

Bru.  You  say  you  are  a  better  soldier  : 
Let  it  appear  so ;  make  your  vaunting  true, 
And  it  shall  please  me  well.     For  mine  own  part, 
I  shall  be  glad  to  learn  of  abler  men. 

Cas.  You  wrong  me  every  way,  you  wrong  me,  Brutus : 
I  said  an  elder  soldier,  not  a  better : 
Did  I  say  better  ? 

Bru.  If  you  did,  I  care  not. 

Cas.  When  Caesar  lived,  he  durst  not  thus  have  moved  me. 

Bru.  Peace,  peace !  you  durst  not  so  have  tempted  him. 

Cas.  I  durst  not  ? 

Bru.  No.  • 

Cas.  What !  durst  not  tempt  him  ? 

Bru.  For  your  life  you  durst  not. 

Cas.  Do  not  presume  too  much  upon  my  love  : 
I  may  do  that  I  shall  be  sorry  for. 

Bru.  You  have  done  that  you  should  be  sorry  for. 
There  is  no  terror,  Cassius,  in  your  threats  ; 
For  I  am  armed  so  strong  in  honesty, 
That  they  pass  by  me  as  the  idle  wind, 
Which  I  respect  not.     I  did  send  to  you 
For  certain  sums  of  gold,  which  you  denied  me ; 
For  I  can  raise  no  money  by  vile  means. 
By  Heaven,  I  had  rather  coin  my  heart, 
And  drop  my  blood  for  drachmas,  than  to  wring 
From  the  hard  hands  of  peasants  their  vile  trash 
By  any  indirection.     I  did  send 
To  you  for  gold  to  pay  my  legions, 
Which  you  denied  me.     Was  that  done  like  Cassius  ? 
Should  I  have  answered  Caius  Cassius  so? 
When  Marcus  Brutus  grows  so  covetous, 
To  lock  such  rascal  counters  from  his  friends, 
Be  ready,  gods,  with  all  your  thunderbolts  1 
Dash  him  to  pieces  1 


GOG  ENGLISH  LITEKATUKE. 

Cas.  I  denied  you  not. 

Bru.  You  did. 

Cas.  I  did  not :  he  was  but  a  fool 

That  brought  my  answer  back.     Brutus  hath  rived  my  heart : 
A  friend  should  bear  his  friend's  infirmities ; 
But  Brutus  makes  mine  greater  than  they  are. 

Bru.  I  do  not,  till  you  practice  them  on  me. 

Cas.  You  love  me  not. 

Bru.  I  do  not  like  your  faults. 

Cas.  A  friendly  eye  could  never  see  such  faults. 

Bru.  A  flatterer's  would  not,  though  they  do  appear 
As  huge  as  high  Olympus. 

Cas.  Come,  Antony,  and  young  Octavius,  come, 
Revenge  yourselves  alone  on  Cassius  ; 
For  Cassius  is  aweary  of  the  world ; 
Hated  by  one  he  loves ;  braved  by  his  brother ; 
Checked  like  a  bondman ;  all  his  faults  observed, 
Set  in  a  note-book,  learned  and  conned  by  rote, 
To  cast  into  my  teeth.     Oh,  I  could  weep 
My  spirit  from  mine  eyes  !  —  There  is  my  dagger, 
And  here  my  naked  breast ;  within,  a  heart 
Dearer  than  Plutus'  mine,  richer  than  gold : 
If  that  thou  beest  a  Roman,  take  it  forth. 
I,  that  denied  thee  gold,  will  give  my  heart : 
Strike,  as  thou  didst  at  Caesar ;  for  I  know, 
When  thou  didst  hate  him  worst,  thou  lov'dst  him  better 
Than  ever  thou  lov'dst  Cassius. 

Bru.  Sheathe  your  dagger  ! 
Be  angry  when  you  will,  it  shall  have  scope ; 
Do  what  you  will,  dishonor  shall  be  humor. 
O  Cassius  !  you  are  yoked  with  a  lamb 
That  carries  anger  as  the  flint  bears  fire ; 
Who,  much  enforced,  shows  a  hasty  spark, 
And  straight  is  cold  a«;ain. 

Cas.  Hath  Cassius  lived 
To  be  but  mirth  and  laughter  to  his  Brutus, 
When  grief,  and  blood  ill-tempered,  vexeth  him  ? 

Bru.  When  I  spoke  that,  I  was  ill-tempered  too. 

Cas.  Do  you  confess  so  much  ?     Give  me  your  hand. 

Bru.  And  my  heart  too. 

Cas.  O  Brutus  ! 

Bru.  What's  the  matter  ? 

Cas.  Have  not  you  love  enough  to  bear  with  me 
When  that  rash  humor  which  my  mother  gave  me 
Makes  me  forgetful  ? 

Bru.  Yes,  Cassius ;  and  from  henceforth, 
When  you  are  over-earnest  with  your  Brutus, 
He'll  think  your  mother  chides,  and  leave  you  so.  [Noise  within. 

Poet.  [  Within.]  Let  me  go  in  to  see  the  generals. 
There  is  some  grudge  between  'em  :  'tis  not  meet 
They  be  alone. 

Lucil.  [  Within."]  You  shall  not  come  to  them. 

Poet.  [  Within.]  Nothing  but  death  shall  stay  me. 


WILLIAM  SHAKSPEARE.  COT 

Enter  POET. 

Cas.  How  now  ?     What's  the  matter  ? 

Poet.  For  shame,  you  generals  !    What  do  you  mean  ? 
Love  and  be  friends,  as  two  such  men  should  be ; 
For  I  have  seen  more  years,  I'm  sure,  than  ye. 

Cas.  Ha,  ha !     How  vilely  doth  this  cynic  rhyme  1 

Bru.  Get  you  hence,  sirrah  !  saucy  fellow,  hence  1 

Cas.  Bear  with  him,  Brutus  :  'tis  his  fashion. 

Bru.  I'll  know  his  humor  when  he  knows  his  time. 
What  should  the  wars  do  with  these  jigging  fools  ? 
Companion,  hence  ! 

Cas.  Away,  away !  begone  1  [Exit  POET. 

Enter  LUCILIUS  and  TITINIUS. 

Bru.  Lucilius  and  Titinius,  bid  the  commanders 
Prepare  to  lodge  their  companies  to-night. 

Cas.  And  come  yourselves,  and  bring  Messala  with  you, 
Immediately  to  us.  [Exeunt  LUCILIUS  and  TITINIUS. 

Bru.  Lucius,  a  bowl  of  wine. 

Cas.  I  did  not  think  you  could  have  been  so  angry. 

Bru.  O  Cassius  !  I  am  sick  of  many  griefs. 

Cas.  Of  your  philosophy  you  make  no  use, 
If  you  give  place  to  accidental  evils. 

Bru.  No  man  bears  sorrow  better.     Portia  is  dead. 

Cas.  Ha!  Portia? 

Bru.  She  is  dead. 

Cas.  How  'scaped  I  killing  when  I  crossed  you  so  ?  — 

0  insupportable  and  touching  loss !  — 
Upon  what  sickness  ? 

Bru.  Impatient  of  my  absence, 
And  grief  that  young  Octavius  with  Mark  Antony 
Have  made  themselves  so  strong ;  for  with  her  death 
That  tidings  came :  with  this  she  fell  distract, 
And,  her  attendants  absent,  swallowed  fire. 

Cas.  And  died  so  ? 

Bru.  Even  so. 

Cas.  O  ye  immortal  gods ! 

Enter  Lucius  with  wine  and  tapers. 

Bru.  Speak  no  more  of  her.     Give  me  a  bowl  of  wine : 
In  this  I  bury  all  unkindness,  Cassius.  [Drinks. 

Cas.  My  heart  is  thirsty  for  that  noble  pledge. 
Fill,  Lucius,  till  the  wine  o'erswell  the  cup : 

1  can  not  drink  too  much  of  Brutus'  love.  [Drinks. 

Re-enter  TITINIUS  with  MESSALA. 

Bru.  Come  in,  Titinius !  —  Welcome,  good  Messala  !  — 
Now  sit  we  close  about  this  taper  here, 
And  call  in  question  our  necessities. 

Cas.  Portia,  art  thou  gone  ? 

Bru.  No  more,  I  pray  you.  — 


COS  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


Messala,  I  have  here  received  letters 
That  young  Octavius  and  Mark  Antony 
Come  down  upon  us  with  a  mighty  power, 
Bending  their  expedition  toward  Philippi. 

Mes.  Myself  have  letters  of  the  selfsame  tenor. 

Bru.  With  what  addition? 

Mes.  That  by  proscription,  and  bills  of  outlawry, 
Octavius,  Antony,  and  Lepidus 
Have  put  to  death  a  hundred  senators. 

Bru.  Therein  our  letters  do  not  well  agree : 
Mine  speak  of  seventy  senators  that  died 
By  their  proscriptions,  Cicero  being  one. 

"Cas.  Cicero  one  ? 

Mes.  Cicero  is  dead, 
And  by  that  order  of  proscription. 
Had  you  your  letters  from  your  wife,  my  lord  ? 

Bru.  No,  Messala. 

Mes.  Nor  nothing  in  your  letters  writ  of  her? 

Bru.  Nothing,  Messala. 

Mes.  That,  methinks,  is  strange. 

Bru.  Why  ask  you  ?     Hear  you  aught  of  her  in  yours  ? 

Mes.  No,  my  lord. 

Bru.  Now,  as  you  are  a  Roman,  tell  me  true. 

Mes.  Then  like  a  Roman  bear  the  truth  I  tell : 
For  certain  she  is  dead,  and  by  strange  manner. 

Bru.  Why,  farewell,  Portia  !     We  must  die,  Messala. 
With  meditating  that  she  must  die  once, 
I  have  the  patience  to  endure  it  now. 

Mes.  Even  so  great  men  great  losses  should  endure. 

Cas.  I  have  as  much  of  this  in  art  as  you ; 
But  yet  my  nature  could  not  bear  it  so. 

Bru.  Well,  to  our  work  alive.     What  do  you  think 
Of  marching  to  Philippi  presently  V 

Cas.  I  do  not  think  it  good. 

Bru.  Your  reason  ? 

Cas.  This  it  is  : 

'Tis  better  that  the  enemy  seek  us : 
So  shall  he  waste  his  means,  weary  his  soldiers, 
Doing  himself  offense ;  whilst  we,  lying  still, 
Are  full  of  rest,  defense,  and  nimbleness. 

Bru.  Good  reasons  must,  of  force,  give  place  to  better. 
The  people  'twixt  Philippi  and  this  ground 
Do  stand  but  in  a  forced  affection ; 
For  they  have  grudged  us  contribution. 
The  enemy,  marching  along  by  them, 
By  them  shall  make  a  fuller  number  up, 
Come  on  refreshed,  new-hearted,  and  encouraged ; 
From  which  advantage  shall  we  cut  him  off 
If  at  Philippi  we  do  face  him  there, 
These  people  at  our  back. 

Cas.  Hear  me,  good  brother. 

Bru.  Under  your  pardon.  —  You  must  note  beside, 


WILLIAM  SHAKSPEARE.  609 

That  we  have  tried  the  utmost  of  our  friends : 

Our  legions  are  briinfull ;  our  cause  is  ripe ; 

The  enemy  increaseth  every  day ; 

We  at  the  hight  are  ready  to  decline. 

There  is  a  tide  in  the  affairs  of  men, 

Which,  taken  at  the  flood,  leads  on  to  fortune ; 

Omitted,  all  the  voyage  of  their  life 

Is  bound  in  shallows  and  in  miseries. 

On  such  a  full  sea  are  we  now  afloat ; 

And  we  must  take  the  current  when  it  serves, 

Or  lose  our  ventures. 

Cas.  Then,  with  your  will,  go  on  : 
We'll  along  ourselves,  and  meet  them  at  Philippi. 

Bru.  The  deep  of  night  is  crept  upon  our  talk, 
And  nature  must  obey  necessity ; 
Which  we  will  niggard  with  a  little  rest. 
There  is  no  more  to  say  ? 

Cas.  No  more.     Good- night ! 
Early  to-morrow  will  we  rise,  and  hence. 

Bru.  Lucius,  my  gown.  [Exit  Lucius. 

Farewell,  good  Messala !  — 
Good-night  Titinius  !  —  Noble,  noble  Cassius, 
Good-night,  and  good  repose  ! 

Cas.  O  my  dear  brother  ! 
This  was  an  ill  beginning  of  the  night. 
Never  come  such  division  'tween  our  souls  I 
Let  it  not,  Brutus. 

Bru.  Every  thing  is  well. 

Cas.  Good-night,  my  lord  ! 

Bru.  Good-night,  good  brother  ! 

Tit.  Mes.  Good-night,  lord  Brutus  ! 

Bru.  Farewell,  every  one  !  {Exeunt  CASSIUS,  TITINIUS,  and  MESSALA. 

Re-enter  Lucius  wth  the  Govm. 

Give  me  the  gown.     Where  is  thy  instrument  V 

Luc.  Here  in  the  tent.' 

Bru.  What !  thou  speak' st  drowsily  ? 
Poor  knave,  I  blame  thee  not :  thou  art  o'erwatched. 
Call  Claudius,  and  some  other  of  my  men  : 
I'll  have  them  sleep  on  cushions  in  my  tent. 

Luc.  Varro  and  Claudius  ! 

Enter  VARRO  and  CLAUDIUS. 

Var.  Calls  my  lord  ? 

Bru.  I  pray  you,  sirs,  lie  in  my  tent,  and  sleep : 
It  may  be  I  shall  raise  you  by  and  by 
On  business  to  my  brother  Cassius. 

Var.  So  please  you,  we  will  stand,  and  watch  your  pleasure. 

Bru.  I  will  not  have  it  so :  lie  down,  good  sirs  ; 
It  may  be  I  shall  otherwise  bethink  me. 
Look,  Lucius !  here's  the  book  I  sought  for  so  : 
I  put  it  in  the  pocket  of  my  gown.  [SERVANTS  lie  down. 


610  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Luc.  I  was  sure  your  lordship  did  not  give  it  me. 

Bru.  Bear  with  me,  good  boy :  I  am  much  ibrgetful. 
Canst  thou  hold  up  thy  heavy  eyes  a,  while, 
And  touch  thy  instrument  a  strain  or  two  ? 

Luc.  Ay,  my  lord,  an't  please  you. 

Bru.  It  does,  my  boy : 
I  trouble  thee  too  much  ;  but  thou  art  willing. 

Luc.  It  is  my  duty,  sir. 

Bru.  I  should  not  urge  thy  duty  past  thy  might : 
I  know  young  bloods  look  for  a  time  of  rest. 

Luc.  I  have  slept,  my  lord,  already. 

Brn.  It  is  well  done ;  and  thou  shalt  sleep  again. 
I  will  not  hold  thee  long :  if  I  do  live, 

I  will  be  good  to  thee.  [Music  and  a  song. 

This  is  a  sleepy  tune. —  O  murderous  slumber  ! 
Lay'st  thou  thy  leaden  mace  upon  my  boy, 
That  plays  thee  music  ?  —  Gentle  knave,  good-night ! 
I  will  not  do  thee  so  much  wrong  to  wake  thee. 
If  thou  dost  nod,  thou  break'st  thy  instrument: 
I'll  take  it  from  thee  ;  and,  good  boy,  good-night !  — 
Let  me  see,  let  me  see :  is  not  the  leaf  turned  down 
Where  I  left  reading  ?     Here  it  is,  I  think.  [He  sits  down. 

Enter  the  GHOST  of  C.ESAR. 

How  ill  this  taper  burns !     Ha !  who  comes  here  ? 
I  think  it  is  the  weakness  of  mine  eyes 
That  shapes  this  monstrous  apparition. 
It  comes  upon  me.     Art  thou  any  thing  ? 
Art  thou  some  god,  some  angel,  or  some  devil, 
That  mak'st  my  blood  cold,  and  my  hair  to  stare  ? 
Speak  to  me  what  thou  art. 

Ghost.  Thy  evil  spirit,  Brutus. 

Bru.  Why  com'st  thou  ? 

Ghost.  To  tell  thee  thou  shalt  see  me  at  Philippi. 

Bru.  Well ;  then  I  shall  see  thee  again  ? 

Ghost.  Ay,  at  Philippi.  [ GHOST  vanishes. 

Bru.  Why,  I  will  see  thee  at  Philippi  then. 
Now  I  have  taken  heart,  thou  vanishest : 
III  spirit,  I  would  hold  more  talk  with  thee.  — 
Boy !     Lucius !  —  Varro !  —  Claudius !     Sirs,  awake !  — 
Claudius ! 

Luc.  The  strings,  my  lord,  are  false. 

Bru.  He  thinks  he  still  is  at  his  instrument.  — 
Lucius,  awake ! 

Luc.  My  lord ! 

Bru.  Didst  thou  dream,  Lucius,  that  thou  so  criedst  out? 

Luc.  My  lord,  I  do  not  know  that  I  did  cry. 

Bru.  Yes,  that  thou  didst.     Didst  thou  see  any  thing? 

Luc.  Nothing,  my  lord. 

Bru.  Sleep  again,  Lucius.  —  Sirrah,  Claudius  1 
Fellow  thou  !  awake  ! 

Far.  My  lord ! 


WILLIAM  SHAKSPEAKE.  Oil 

Clau.  My  lord ! 

Bru.  Why  did  you  so  cry  out,  sirs,  in  your  sleep  ? 

Var.  Clau.  Did  we,  my  lord  ? 

Bru.  Ay  :  saw  you  any  thing  ? 

Var.  No,  my  lord  :  I  saw  nothing. 

Clau.  Nor  I,  my  lord. 

Bru.  Go,  and  commend  me  to  my  brother  Cassius. 
Bid  him  set  on  his  powers  betimes  before, 
And  we  will  follow. 

Var.  Clau.  It  shall  be  done,  my  lord.  [Exeunt. 


ACT   V. 

SCENE  I.—  The  Plains  of  PUlippi. 
Enter  OCTAVIUS,  ANTONY,  and  their  Army. 

Oct.  Now,  Antony,  our  hopes  are  answered. 
You  said  the  enemy  would  not  come  down, 
But  keep  the  hills  and  upper  regions. 
It  proves  not  so  :  their  battles  are  at  hand ; 
They  mean  to  warn  us  at  Philippi  here, 
Answering  before  we  do  demand  of  them. 

Ant.  Tut!  I  am  in  their  bosoms,  and  I  know 
Wherefore  they  do  it :  they  could  be  content 
To  visit  other  places,  and  come  down 
With  fearful  bravery,  thinking  by  this  face 
To  fasten  in  our  thoughts  that  they  have  courage ; 
But  'tis  not  so. 

Enter  a  MESSENGER, 

Mess.  Prepare  you,  generals  : 
The  enemy  comes  on  in  gallant  show ; 
Their  bloody  sign  of  battle  is  hung  out, 
And  something's  to  be  done  immediately. 

Ant.  Octavius,  lead  your  battle  softly  on 
Upon  the  left  hand  of  the  even  field. 

Oct.  Upon  the  right  hand  I ;  keep  thou  the  left. 

Ant.  Why  do  you  cross  me  in  this  exigent  ? 

Oct.  I  do  aot  cross  you ;  but  I  will  do  so.  [March. 

Drum.    Enter  BRUTUS,  CASSIUS,  and  their  Army;  LUCILIUS,  TITINIUS,  MESSALA, 

and  others. 

Bru.  They  stand,  and  would  have  parley. 
Cas.  Stand  fast,  Titinius :  we  must  out  and  talk. 
Oct.  Mark  Antony,  shall  we  give  sign  of  battle  ? 
Ant.  No,  Caesar :  we  will  answer  on  their  charge. 
Make  forth :  the  generals  would  have  some  words. 
Oct.  Stir  not  until  the  signal. 
Bru.  Words  before  blows  :  is  it  so,  countrymen  ? 
Oct.  Not  that  we  love  words  better,  as  you  do. 
Bru.  Good  words  are  better  than  bad  strokes,  Octavius. 


612  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

Ant.  In  your  bad  strokes,  Brutus,  you  give  good  words : 
Witness  the  hole  you  made  in  Cassar's  heart, 
Crying,  "  Long  live  !  hail,  Ccesar  !  " 

Cas.  Antony, 

The  posture  of  your  blows  are  yet  unknown ; 
But  for  your  words,  they  rob  the  Hybla  bees, 
And  leave  them  honeyless. 
Ant.  Not  stingless  too. 
Bru.  Oh,  yes !  and  soundless  too ; 
For  you  have  stolen  their  buzzing,  Antony, 
And*  very  wisely,  threat  before  you  sting. 

Ant.  Villains,  you  did  not  so  when  your  vile  daggers 
Hacked  one  another  in  the  sides  of  Caesar  : 
You  showed  your  teeth  like  apes,  and  fawned  like  hounds, 
And  bowed  like  bondmen,  kissing  Caesar's  feet ; 
"\Vhilst  damned  Casca,  like  a  cur,  behind, 
Struck  Caesar  on  the  neck.     O  you  flatterers ! 

Cas.  Flatterers  !     Now,  Brutus,  thank  yourself: 
This  tongue  had  not  offended  so  to-day 
If  Cassius  might  have  ruled. 

Oct.  Come,  come,  the  cause :  if  arguing  make  us  sweat, 
The  proof  of  it  will  turn  to  redder  drops. 
Look! 

I  draw  a  sword  against  conspirators : 
When  think  you  that  the  sword  goes  up  again  ? 
Never  till  Caesar's  three  and  twenty  wounds 
Be  well  avenged,  or  till  another  Caesar 
Have  added  slaughter  to  the  sword  of  traitors. 

Bru.  Caesar,  thou  canst  not  die  by  traitors'  hands 
Unless  thou  bring'st  them  with  thee. 

Oct.  So  I  hope : 
I  was  not  born  to  die  on  Brutus'  sword. 

Bru.  Oh !  if  thou  wort  the  noblest  of  thy  strain, 
Young  man,  thou  couldst  not  die  more  honorable. 

Cas.  A  peevish  schoolboy,  worthless  of  such  honor, 
Joined  with  a  masker  and  a  reveler. 
Ant.  Old  Cassius  still ! 
Oct.  Come,  Antony  ;  away  !  — 
Defiance,  traitors,  hurl  we  in  your  teeth. 
If  you  dare  fight  to-day,  come  to  the  field ; 
If  not,  when  you  have  stomachs.          [Exeunt  OCTAVIUS,  ANTONY,  and 

their  Army. 

Cas.  Why  now,  blow,  wind  ;  swell,  billow  ;  and  swim,  bark  ! 
The  storm  is  up,  and  all  is  on  the  hazard. 
Bru.  Ho  !  Lucilius  ;  hark  !  a  word  with  you. 

Lucil  My  lord  !  [BRUTUS  and  LUCILIUS  converse  apart. 

Cas.  Messala ! 

Mes.  What  says  my  general  ? 
Cas.  Messala^ 

This  is  my  birthday ;   as  this  very  day 
Was  Cassius  born.     Give  me  thy  hand,  Messala. 
Be  thou  my  witness,  that  against  my  will, 


WILLIAM   SHAKSPEAEE.  013 

As  Pompey  was,  am  I  compelled  to  set 

Upon  one  battle  all  our  liberties. 

You  know  that  I  held  Epicurus  strong 

And  his  opinion :  now  I  change  my  mind, 

And  partly  credit  things  that  do  presage. 

Coining  from  Sardis,  on  our  former  ensign 

Two  mighty  eagles  fell,  and  there  they  perched, 

Gorging  and  feeding  from  our  soldiers'  hands  ; 

Who  to  Philippi  here  consorted  us  : 

This  morning  are  they  fled  away,  and  gone ; 

And  in  their  stead  do  ravens,  crows,  and  kites 

Fly  o'er  our  heads,  and  downward  look  on  us, 

As  we  were  sickly  prey :  their  shadows  seem 

A  canopy  most  fatal,  under  which 

Our  army  lies,  ready  to  give  up  the  ghost. 

Mes.  Believe  not  so. 

Cas.  I  but  believe  it  partly  ; 
For  I  am  fresh  of  spirit,  and  resolved 
To  meet  all  perils  very  constantly. 

Bru.  Even  so,  Lucilius. 

Cas.  Now,  most  noble  Brutus, 
The  gods  to-day  stand  friendly,  that  we  may, 
Lovers  in  peace,  lead  on  our  days  to  age. 
But,  since  the  affairs  of  men  rest  still  uncertain, 
Let's  reason  with  the  worst  that  may  befall. 
If  we  do  lose  this  battle,  then  is  this 
The  very  last  time  we  shall  speak  together: 
What  are  you  then  determined  to  do? 

Bru.  Even  by  the  rule  of  that  philosophy 
By  which  I  did  blame  Cato  for  the  death 
Which  he  did  give  himself,  —  I  know  not  how, 
But  I  do  find  it  cowardly  and  vile, 
For  fear  of  what  might  fall,  so  to  prevent 
The  term  of  life,  —  arming  myself  with  patience 
To  stay  the  providence  of  those  high  powers 
That  govern  us  below. 

Cas.  Then,  if  we  lose  this  battle, 
You  are  contented  to  be  led  in  triumph 
Through  the  streets  of  Rome  ? 

Bru.  No,  Cassius,  no !    Think  not,  thou  noble  Roman, 
That  ever  Brutus  will  go  bound  to  Rome : 
He  bears  too  great  a  mind.     But  this  same  day 
Must  end  that  work  the  ides  of  March  began ; 
And  whether  we  shall  meet  again,  I  know  not. 
Therefore  our  everlasting  farewell  take. 
For  ever,  and  for  ever,  farewell,  Cassius ! 
If  we  do  meet  again,  —  why,  we  shall  smile ; 
If  not,  —  why,  then,  this  parting  was  well  made. 

Cas.  For  ever,  and  for  ever,  farewell,  Brutus ! 
If  we  do  meet  again,  we'll  smile  indeed ; 
If  not,  'tis  true,  this  parting  was  well  made. 

Bru.  Why,  then,  lead  on.     Oh  that  a  man  might  know 


614  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

The  end  of  this  day's  business  ere  it  come ! 

But  it  sufficeth  that  the  day  will  end, 

And  then  the  end  is  known.     Come,  ho !  away !  [Exeunt. 

SCENE   II.  —  The  Same.     The  Field  of  Battle. 
Alarum.      Enter  BRUTUS  and  MESSALA. 

Bru.  Ride,  ride,  Messala,  ride  !  and  give  these  bills 

Unto  the  legions  on  the  other  side.  [Loud  alarum. 

Let  them  set  on  at  once ;  for  I  perceive 
But  cold  demeanor  in  Octavius'  wing, 
And  sudden  push  gives  them  the  overthrow. 
Ride,  ride,  Messala !  let  them  all  come  down.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.  —  The  Same.     Another  Part  of  the  Field. 
Alarums.      Enter  CASSIUS  and  TITIXIUS. 

Cos.  Oh,  look,  Titinius,  look !  the  villains  fly  : 
Myself  have  to  mine  own  turned  enemy. 
This  ensign  here  of  mine  was  turning  back : 
I  slew  the  coward,  and  did  take  it  from  him. 

Tit.  O  Cassius  !   Brutus  gave  the  word  too  early  ; 
Who,  having  some  advantage  on  Octavius, 
Took  it  too  eagerly  :  his  soldiers  fell  to  spoil, 
Whilst  we  by  Antony  are  all  inclosed. 

Enter  PLNDARUS. 

Pin.  Fly  farther  off,  my  lord,  fly  farther  off! 
Mark  Antony  is  in  your  tents,  my  lord ! 
Fly  therefore,  noble  Cassius  !  fly  far  off ! 

Cos.  This  hill  is  far  enough.     Look,  look,  Titinius ! 
Are  those  my  tents  where  I  perceive  the  fire  ? 

Tit.  They  are,  my  lord. 

Cos.  Titinius,  if  thou  lov'st  me, 
Mount  thou  my  horse,  and  hide  thy  spurs  in  him 
Till  he  have  brought  thee  up  to  yonder  troops, 
And  here  again  ;  that  I  may  rest  assured 
Whether  yond  troops  are  friend  or  enemy. 

Tit.  I  will  be  here  again  even  with  a  thought.  [Exit. 

Cos.  Go,  Pindarus  ;  get  higher  on  that  hill ; 
My  sight  was  ever  thick;  regard  Titinius, 

And  tell  me  what  thou  not'st  about  the  field.  [Exit  PINDARUS. 

This  day  I  breathed  first :  time  is  come  round ; 
And  where  I  did  begin,  there  shall  I  end  : 
Mv  life  is  run  his  compass. —  Sirrah  !  what  news? 

"Pin.  [Above.']  O  my  lord  ! 

Cas.  What  news  ? 

Pin.  Titinius  is  inclosed  round  about 
With  horsemen  that  make  to  him  on  the  spur; 
Yet  he  spurs  on.  —  Now  they  are  almost  on  him : 
Now,  Titinius  !  — 
Now  some  light !     Oh,  he  lights  too  : 


WILLIAM  SHAKSPEAKE.  G15 

He's  ta'en ;  and,  hark  1  [SlunU. 

They  shout  for  joy. 

Cas.  Come  down  !  behold  no  more. 
O  coward  that  I  am  to  live  so  long, 
To  see  iny  best  friend  ta'en  before°iny  face  I 

Enter  PINDARUS. 
Come  hither,  sirrah  ! 
In  Parthia  did  I  take  thee  prisoner ; 
And  then  I  swore  thee,  saving  of  thy  life, 
That,  whatsoever  I  did  bid  thee  do, 
Thou  shouldst  attempt  it.     Come  now,  keep  thine  oath  1 
Now  be  a  freeman  ;  and  with  this  good  sword, 
That  ran  through  Caesar's  bowels,  search  this  bosom. 
Stand  not  to  answer  :  here,  take  thou  the  hilts ; 
And  when  my  face  is  covered,  as  'tis  now, 
Guide  thou  the  sword.     Cassar,  thou  art  revenged 
Even  with  the  sword  that  killed  thee.  [Die*. 

Pin.  So  I  am  free ;  yet  would  not  so  have  been, 
Durst  I  have  done  my  will.     O  Cassius ! 
Far  from  this  country  Pindarus  shall  run, 
Where  never  Roman  shall  take  note  of  him.  {Exit. 

Re-enter  TITINIUS  with  MESSALA. 

Mes.  It  is  but  change,  Titinius  ;  for  Octavius 
Is  overthrown  by  noble  Brutus'  power, 
As  Cassius'  legions  are  by  Antony. 

Tit.  These  tidings  will  well  comfort  Cassius. 

Mes.  Where  did  you  leave  him  ? 

Tit.  All  disconsolate, 
With  Pindarus  his  bondman,  on  this  hill. 

Mes.  Is  not  that  he  that  lies  upon  the  ground  ? 

Tit.  He  lies  not  like  the  living.    O  my  heart  1 

Mes.  Is  not  that  he  ? 

Tit.  No :  this  was  he,  Messala ; 
But  Cassius  is  no  more.     O  setting  sun ! 
As  in  thy  red  rays  thou  dost  sink  to-night, 
So  in  his  red  blood  Cassius'  day  is  set : 
The  sun  of  Rome  is  set.     Our  day  is  gone ; 
Clouds,  dews,  and  dangers  come ;  our  deeds  are  done  : 
Mistrust  of  my  success  hath  done  this  deed. 

Mes.  Mistrust  of  good  success  hath  done  this  deed. 
O  hateful  Error  !  Melancholy's  child  ! 
Why  dost  thou  show  to  the  apt  thoughts  of  men 
The  things  that  are  not  ?     O  Error  1   soon  conceived, 
Thou  never  com'st  unto  a  happy  birth, 
But  kill'st  the  mother  that  engendered  thee. 

Tit.  What,  Pindarus  1     Where  art  thou,  Pindarus? 

Mes.  Seek  him,  Titinius,  whilst  I  go  to  meet 
The  noble  Brutus,  thrusting  this  report 
Into  his  ears :  I  may  say,  thrusting  it ; 
For  piercing  steel,  and  darts  envenomed, 


616  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Shall  be  as  welcome  to  the  ears  of  Brutus 
As  tidings  of  this  sight. 

Tit.  Hie  you,  Messala  ; 

And  I  will  seek  for  Pindarus  the  while.  —  [Exit  MESSALA. 

Why  didst  thou  send  me  forth,  brave  Cassius  ? 
Did  I  not  meet  thy  friends  V  and  did  not  they 
Put  on  my  brows  this  wreath  of  victory, 

And  bid  me  give  it  thee  ?     Didst  thou  not  hear  their  shouts  ? 
Alas !  thou  hast  misconstrued  every  thing. 
But  hold  thee  ;  take  this  garland  on  thy  brow  : 
Thy  Brutus  bid  me  give  it  thee ;  and  I 
Will  do  his  bidding.  —  Brutus,  come  apace, 
And  see  how  I  regarded  Caius  Cassius.  — 
By  your  leave,  gods  (this  is  a  Roman's  part), 
Coine,  Cassius'  sword,  and  find  Titinius'  heart.  [Dies. 

Alarum.    Re-enter  MESSALA,  with  RKUTUS,  yntng  CATO,  STRATO,  VOLUMNIUS, 
and  LUCILIUS. 

Bru.  Where,  where,  Messala,  doth  his  body  lie  ? 

Mes.  Lo,  yonder!  and  Titinius  mourning  it. 

Bru.  Titinius'  face  is  upward. 

Cato.  He  is  slain. 

Bru.  O  Julius  CaBsar,  thou  art  mighty  yet  1 
Thy  spirit  walks  abroad,  and  turns  our  swords 
In  our  own  proper  entrails.  [Low  alarums. 

Cato.  Brave  Titinius  !  — 
Look,  whe'r  he  have  not  crowned  dead  Cassius ! 

Bru.  Are  yet  two  Romans  living  such  as  these  ? 
The  last  of  all  the  Romans,  fare  thee  well  1 
It  is  impossible  that  ever  Rome 

Should  breed  thy  fellow.  —  Friends,  I  owe  more  tears 
To  this  dead  man  than  you  shall  see  me  pay.  — 
I  shall  find  time,  Cassius  ;  I  shall  find  time.  — 
Come,  therefore,  and  to  Thassos  send  his  body : 
His  funeral  shall  not  be  in  our  camp, 
Lest  it  discomfort  us.  —  Lucilius,  come  ; 
And  come,  young  Cato  ;  let  us  to  the  field.  — 
Labeo  and  Flavius,  set  our  battles  on  : 
'Tis  three  o'clock ;  and,  Romans,  yet  ere  night 
We  shall  try  fortune  in  a  second  fight.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.  —  Another  Part  of  the  Field. 

Alarum.     Enter,  fyhting,  Soldiers  of  both  Armies;  then  Bnuxrs,  CATO,  LUCILIUS, 

and  Others. 

Bru.  Yet,  countrymen,  oh,  yet,  hold  up  your  heads ! 

Cato.  What  bastard  doth  not  ?     Who  will  go  with  me  ? 
I  will  proclaim  my  name  about  the  field : 
I  am  the  son  of  Marcus  Cato,  ho  ! 
A  foe  to  tyrants,  and  my  country's  friend ; 
I  am  the  son  of  M-ircus  Cato,  ho !  [Charges  the  enemy. 

Bru.  And  1  am  Brutus,  Marcus  Brutus,  I; 
Brutus,  my  country's  friend  :  know  me  for  Brutus. 

[ Exit,  charging  the  enemy.     CATO  -is  overpowered,  and  falls. 


WILLIAM   SIIAKSPEARE.  (J17 

Lucil.  O  young  and  noble  Cato !  art  thou  down  ? 
Why,  now  thou  diest  as  bravely  as  Titinius  ; 
And  mayst  be  honored,  being  Gate's  son. 

1  Sold.  Yield,  or  thou  diest. 

Lucil.  Only  I  yield  to  die  : 

There  is  so  much,  that  thou  wilt  kill  me  straight ;  [Offering  money. 

Kill  Brutus,  and  be  honored  in  his  death. 

1  Sold.  We  must  not.     A  noble  prisoner  ! 

2  Sold.  Room,  ho  1     Tell  Antony,  Brutus  is  ta'en. 

1  Sold.  I'll  tell  the  news.     Here  comes  the  general ! 

Enter  ANTOSY. 

Brutus  is  ta'en,  Brutus  is  ta'en,  my  lord ! 

Ant.  Where  is  he? 

Lucil.  Safe,  Antony  :  Brutus  is  safe  enough. 
I  dare  assure  thee  that  no  enemy 
Shall  ever  take  alive  the  noble  Brutus : 
The  gods  defend  him  from  so  great  a  shame  1 
When  you  do  find  him,  or  alive  or  dead, 
He  will  be  found  like  Brutus,  like  himself. 

Ant.  This  is  not  Brutus,  friend,  but,  I  assure  you, 
A  prize  no  less  in  worth.     Keep  this  man  safe ; 
Give  him  all  kindness  :  I  had  rather  have 
Such  men  my  friends  than  enemies.     Go  on, 
And  see  whe'r  Brutus  be  alive  or  dead ; 
And  bring  us  word  unto  Octavius'  tent 
How  every  thing  is  chanced.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  V.— Another  Part  of  the  Field. 
Enter  BRUTUS,  DAKDANIUS,  CLITUS,  STRATO,  and  VOLUMNIUS. 

Bru.  Come,  poor  remains  of  friends,  rest  on  this  rock. 

Cli.  Statilius  showed  the  torchlight ;  but,  my  lord, 
He  came  not  back :  he  is  or  ta'en  or  slain. 

Bru.  Sit  thee  down,  Clitus.     Slaying  is  the  word  : 
It  is  a  deed  in  fashion.     Hark  thee,  Clitus  {  [Whispering. 

Cli.  What !  I  my  lord  ?     No,  not  for  all  the  world  1 

Bru.  Peace,  then  !  no  words. 

Cli.  I'll  rather  kill  myself. 

Bru.  Hark  thee,  Dardanius  !  [Whispers  him. 

Dar.  Shall  I  do  such  a  deed? 

Cli.  O  Dardanius  ! 

Dar.  O  Clitus ! 

Cli.  What  ill  request  did  Brutus  make  to  thee  ? 

Dar.  To  kill  him,  Clitus.     Look  !  he  meditates. 

Cli.  Now  is  that  noble  vessel  full  of  grief, 
That  it  runs  over  even  at  his  eyes. 

Bru.  Come  hither,  good  Volumnius :  list  a  word. 

Vol.  What  says  my  lord  ? 

Bru.  Why,  this,  Volumnius  : 
The  ghost  of  Caesar  hath  appeared  to  me 
Two  several  times  by  night :  at  Sardis,  once; 


618  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

And  this  last  niglit,  here  in  Philippi  fields. 
I  know  my  hour  is  come. 

Vol.  Not  so,  my  lord. 

Bru.  Nay,  I  am  sure  it  is,  Yolumnius. 
Thou  seest  the  world,  Volumnius,  how  it  goes ; 

Our  enemies  have  beat  us  to  the  pit :  [Low  alarums. 

It  is  more  worthy  to  leap  in  ourselves 
Than  tarry  till  they  push  us.     Good  Volumnius. 
Thou  know'st  that  we  two  went  to  school  together: 
Even  for  that  our  love  of  old.  I  prithee, 
Hold  thou  my  sword-hilts  whilst  I  run  on  it. 

Vol.  That's  not  an  office  for  a  friend,  my  lord.  [Alarum  stili 

Cli.  Fly,  fly,  my  lord !  there  is  no  tarrying  here. 

Bru.  Farewell  to  you, —  and  you,  —  and  you,  Volumnius  !  — 
Strato,  thou  hast  been  all  this  while  asleep : 
Farewell  to  thee  too,  Strato  !  —  Countrymen, 
My  heart  doth  joy,  that  yet  in  all  my  lile 
I  tbund  no  man  but  he  was  true  to  me. 
I  shall  have  glory  by  this  losing  day 
More  than  Octavius  and  Mark  Antony 
By  this  vile  conquest  shall  attain  unto. 
So  fare  you  well  at  once !  for  Brutus'  tongue 
Hath  almost  ended  his  life's  history. 
Night  hangs  upon  mine  eyes :  my  bones  would  rest, 
That  have  but  labored  to  attain  this  hour. 

[Alarum.     Cry  within,  "  Fly,  fly,  fly !  " 

Cli.  Fly,  my  lord  !  fly ! 

Bru.  Hence !  I  will  follow  thee.  — 

[Exeunt  CLITUS,  DARDAXIUS,  and  VOLUMNIUS. 
I  prithee,  Strato,  stay  thou  by  thy  lord. 
Thou  art  a  fellow  of  a  good  respect ; 
Thy  life  hath  had  some  smatch  of  honor  in  it : 
Hold,  then,  my  sword,  and  turn  away  thy  face 
While  I  do  run  upon  it.     Wilt  thou,"  Strato  ? 

Stra.  Give  me  your  hand  first :  fare  you  well,  my  lord  ! 

Bru.  Farewell,  good  Strato  !  —  Caesar,  now  be  still : 
I  killed  not  thee  with  half  so  good  a  will. 

[He  runs  on  his  sword,  and  dies. 

Alarum.    Retreat.    Enter  OCTAVIUS,  ANTONY,  MESSALA,  LUCILIUS,  and  their 

Army. 

Oct.  What  man  is  that  ? 

Ales.  My  master's  man.  —  Strato,  where  is  thy  master  ? 

Stra.  Free  from  the  bondage  you  are  in,  Messala  : 
The  conquerors  can  but  make  a  fire  of  him ; 
For  Brutus  only  overcame  himself; 
And  no  man  else  hath  honor  by  his  death. 

Lucil.  So  Brutus  should  be  found.  —  I  thank  thee,  Brutus, 
That  thou  hast  proved  Lucilius'  saying  true. 

Oct.  All  that  served  Brutus,  I  will  entertain  them.  — 
Fellow,  wilt  thou  bestow  thy  time  with  me  ? 

Stra.  Ay,  if  Messala  will  prefer  me  to  you. 


EDMUND  SPENSER.  619 

Oct.  Do  so,  good  Messala. 

Mes.  How  died  my  master,  Strato  ? 

Stra.  I  held  the  sword,  and  he  did  run  on  it. 

Mes.  Octavius,  then  take  him  to  follow  thee, 
That  did  the  latest  service  to  my  master. 

Ant.  This  was  the  noblest  Roman  of  them  all. 
All  the  conspirators,  save  only  he, 
Did  that  they  did  in  envy  of  great  Caesar : 
He  only,  in  a  general  honest  thought, 
And  common  good  to  all,  made  one  of  them. 
His  life  was  gentle ;  and  the  elements 
So  mixed  in  him,  that  Nature  might  stand  up, 
And  say  to  all  the  world,  "  This  was  a  man  !  " 

Oct.  According  to  his  virtue  let  us  use  him, 
With  all  respect  and  rites  of  burial. 
Within  my  tent  his  bones  to-night  shall  lie, 
Most  like  a  soldier,  ordered  honorably.  — 
So  call  the  field  to  rest ;  and  let's  away 
To  part  the  glories  of  this  happy  day.  [Exeunt. 


EDMUND    SPENSER. 

1553-1599. 

"  Shepheard's  Calender; "  "  Colin  Clouts  come  Home  Again :  "  "Epithnlinion ;  " 
"  View  of  the  State  of  Ireland;  "  and  his  greatest  work,  —  "  The  Faerie  Queene." 
"  The  Faerie  Queene,"  written  in  what  is  called  the  Spenserian  stanza,  was  intended 
to  "fashion  a  gentleman  or  noble  person  in  virtuous  and  gentle  discipline."  Of  the 
twelve  books  planned  originally,  "  Foashioning  XII.  Morall  Virtues,"  there  were 
only  six  written.  Hazlitt  says, '"  Spenser  excels  in  the  two  qualities  in  which  Chim- 
cer  is  most  deficient,  —  invention  and  fancy.  The  invention  shown  in  his  allegori- 
cal personages  is  endless,  as  the  fancy  shown  in  his  description  of  them  is  gorgeous 
and  delightful.  He  is  the  poet  of  romance.  He  describes  things  as  in  a  splendid 
and  voluptuous  dream." 


THE  KNIGHT  AND    THE  LADY. 
I. 

A  GENTLE  Knight  was  pricking  on  the  plaine, 
Ycladd  in  mightie  armes  and  silver  shielde, 
Wherein  old  dints  of  deepe  woundes  did  remaine, 
The  cruel  markes  of  many  a  bloody  fielde ; 
Yet  armes  till  that  time  did  he  never  wield : 
His  angry  steede  did  chide  his  foming  bitt, 
As  much  disdayning  to  the  curbe  to  yield. 
Full  iolly  knight  he  seemed,  and  faire  did  sitt, 
As  one  for  knightly  giusts1  and  fierce  encounters  fitt. 

*  Tournaments. 


620  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

II. 

And  on  his  brest  a  bloodie  crosse  he  bore, 
The  deare  remembrance  of 'his  dying  Lord, 
For  whose  sweete  sake  that  glorious  badge  he  wore, 
And  dead,  as  living  ever,  him  ador'd : 
Upon  his  shield  the  like  was  also  scor'd, 
For  soveraine  hope,  which  in  his  helpe  he  had. 
Right,  faithfull,  true  he  was  in  deede  and  word ; 
But  of  his  cheere  did  seeme  too  solemne  sad; 
Yet  nothing  did  he  dread,  but  ever  was  ydrad.1 

in. 

Upon  a  great  adventure  he  was  bond, 
That  greatest  Gloriana  to  him  gave, 
(That  greatest  glorious  queene  of  Faerie  lond,) 
To  winne  him  worshippe,  and  her  grace  to  have ; 
Which  of  all  earthly  thinges  he  most  did  crave : 
And  ever,  as  he  rode,  his  hart  did  earnea 
To  prove  his  puissance  in  battell  brave 
Upon  his  foe,  and  his  new  force  to  learne,  — 
Upon  his  foe,  a  Dragon  horrible  and  stearne. 

IV. 

A  lovely  Ladie  rode  him  faire  beside, 
Upon  a  lowly  asse  more  white  then  snow ; 
Yet  she  much  whiter ;  but  the  same  did  hide 
Under  a  vele,  that  whimpled3  was  full  low ; 
And  over  all  a  blacke  stole  shee  did  throw. 
As  one  that  inly  mournd,  so  was  she  sad, 
And  heavie  sate  upon  her  palfrey  slow ; 
Seemed  in  heart  some  hidden  care  she  had ; 
And  by  her  in  a  line  a  milke-white  lamb  she  lad. 

v. 

So  pure  and  innocent  as  that  same  lambe 
She  was  in  life  and  every  vertuous  lore ; 
And  by  descent  from  royall  lynage  came 
Of  ancient  kinges  and  queenes  that  had  of  yore 
Their  scepters  stretcht  from  east  to  westerne  shore, 
And  all  the  world  in  their  subjection  held, 
Till  that  infernal  Feend  with  foule  uprore 
Forwasted4  all  their  land,  and  them  expeld ; 
Whom  to  avenge,  she  had  this  Knight  from  far  compeld. 

VI. 

Behind  her  farre  away  a  Dwarfe  did  lag, 

That  lasie  seemd,  in  being  ever  last, 

Or  wearied  with  bearing  of  her  bag 

Of  needments  at  his  backe.     Thus  as  they  past, 

i  Dreaded.  »  Yearn.  »  Gathered,  or  plaited.          «  Much  wasted. 


EDMUND   SPENSER.  C21 

The  day  with  cloudes  was  suddeine  overcast, 
And  angry  love  an  hideous  storine  of  raine 
Did  poure  into  his  leiuans  lap  so  fast, 
That  everie  wight  to  shrowd  it  did  constrain ; 
And  this  faire  couple  eke  to  shroud  themselves  were  fain. 

VII. 

Enforst  to  seeke  some  covert  nigh  at  hand, 
A  shadie  grove  not  farr  away  they  spide, 
That  promist  ayde  the  tempest  to  withstand ; 
Whose  loftie  trees,  yclad  with  sommers  pride, 
Did  spred  so  broad,  that  heavens  light  did  hide, 
Not  perceable  with  power  of  any  starr ; 
And  all  within  were  pathes  and  alleies  wide, 
With  footing  worne,  and  leading  inward  farr: 
Faire  harbour  that  them  seems ;  so  in  they  entred  ar. 

VIII. 

And  foorth  they  passe,  with  pleasure  forward  led, 
loving  to  heare  the  birdes  sweete  harmony, 
Which,  therein  shrouded  from  the  tempest  dred, 
Seemd  in  their  son^  to  scorne  the  cruell  sky. 
Much  can  they  praise  the  trees  so  straight  and  hy,  — 
The  sayling  pine ;  the  cedar,  proud  and  tall ; 
The  vine-propp  elme  ;  the  poplar,  never  dry ; 
The  builder  oake,  sole  king  of  forrests  all ; 
The  aspine,  good  for  staves  ;  the  cypre*sse  funerall ; 

IX. 

The  laurell,  meed  of  mightie  conquerours 
And  poets  sage  ;  the  firre,  that  weepeth  still ; 
The  willow,  worne  of  forlorne  paramours ; 
The  eugh,1  obedient  to  the  benders  will ; 
The  birch,  for  shaftes ;  the  sallow,  for  the  mill ; 
The  mirrhe,  sweete-bleeding  in  the  bitter  wound ; 
The  warlike  beech ;  the  ash,  for  nothing  ill ; 
The  fruitfull  olive  ;  and  the  platane  round  ; 
The  carver  holme ;  the  maple,  seeldom  inward  sound. 


Led  with  delight,  they  thus  beguile  the  way 
Untill  the  blustering  storme  is  overblowne ; 
When,  weening  to  returne  whence  they  did  stray, 
They  can  not  finde  that  path  which  first  was  showne, 
But  wander  to  and  fro  in  waies  unknowne,  — 
Furthest  from  end  then,  when  they  neerest  weene, 
That  makes  them  doubt  their  wits  be  not  their  owne  : 
So  many  pathes,  so  many  turnings  scene, 
That,  which  of  them  to  take,  in  diverse  doubt  they  been. 

Faerie  Queene,  Book  /.,  Canto  I. 
i  Yew. 


OTHER  WRITK  DISTINCTION. 

BOCEB    AKCHAM-  — 1515-r  rated  tutor  of   Queen    Elizabettu 

Author  of*  work  on  Germany,  and  "  Toxophilu*,"  in  the  preface  of  v. 
,gize*  for  writing  it  Lu  English.     His  greatest  work  L- 

VAA-. —  150<3-1 5*2.     Learned  author  of  much  Latin  verse  and 
and  of  "The  Chaiueleou,"  iu  bcotebu 

•  Kr.  — 155',  untew 

.-.  "Arcadia,''  "Deleube  of  l'oe*;<:, "  a.-.'. 

KK.-HAKU    HOOJ- •  "Laws  of  E<:d"H^tkn1   Polity,"   "'• 

which,"  Jiuliam  says,  "  i*  at  this  day  one  of  the  BUMtapieeet  of  J. 

THOMAS     SAOKVIM,K. —  1536-1608.       Joint   author    with  Thomas  Norton,  of 

oduc,"  a  Hi  h',  wi:h   choru- ;   "  '] 'be  Mirrour  '. 

which  .•  |  :.<j  Irjduction';"  and  "Story  of  the  J>uke  of  Buckingham." 

Sir  WALTKB  BAI,KK;II.— 1552-1018.    ^]lar,t^o]<;  -ipli-h'-d  <-ourti"r; 

-  of  "History  of  the  Worl  I,"  ''.Narrative  of  a  Crui-e  to  Guiana,"  and  oilier 
works  iu  probe;  aLw  cultivated  j>oetry  sojaewJiat. 

J'.KN  Jo.x^ir.  — 1574-1  <537.     O-lebrated  Erj/li^h  dramatist,  the  friend  of  Shak- 
|    author  of  "Catiline"    and   "  Stjanus,"  traye-Jie-;    "Every   Man    in   his 
-,"   "The  Alchemist,"  and  "  Vol^ne,"  corne-lies;    and  majiy  ' 
minor  poerns,  and  pro»e-writin^8.     On  his  tombstone  are  the  words,  "0  r; 

':    !   " 

THOMA*  TUWEE.  — 1523-15*0?     «  Five  Hundred  Po!:.»-  of  f>xxl  Uusbandrj-." 
Ko:,:  I  :        '     "'ipies  a  hi?h  rank  arnoujr  earJv  J. 

•/.-•/.it's  Worth  of  Wit  bought  with  a  Million  of  B 
JiofiKHT    |  -..  — 1500-15&5.      "St.  Peter's  Complaint,"  "Mary  Magda- 

i  liner al  'J'eirs,"  and  other  j// 

KAMI;K/>  IMMKI,.  — 1562-1619.   "  Musopbilus,"  "  A  Ilibtoryof  the  Wars  b- 
tJj'i  HOUMJS  of  Vorfc  and  Lancaster." 

•fAM,    !>HAyio>-.—  l.V;.'J-K/Jl.     "  Polyolbion,"  "The  Shepherd's  Garland," 
"  l/arons'  Waj.-,,"  "  J-jjgland'ij  iiero.'  -ymphidia,"  and  o 

Guja.sroj'UKH  MAHM>WK. — !'/;-';  V- -I'/  'J.  W"  •  "Ilent  blank 

-  "  J  anjljurlaine  th«  Great,"  "  Life  and  Death  of  Dr.  Faiutug  "  "  The  Jew  of 

,,:ipJ  JJJ." 

Sir  IfKNitr  Wiirrojf.  — 1568-1639.      M  Klements  of  Arc!  "  TJje  State 

of  C)irif.t«;jjdojn;  "  ajjd  "  lieJiquia;  Wottonianaj,"  published  after  his  death, 

FKA.NCJH    UKAI:MOVT.  — 15«;-1015.       JOHN    J'JJ/IMU.U.  — 1570-1025.      Wrote 
.o  tragedies  and  '  .J'^re  poj^ular  than  Shake; peare  in  their  day,  and 

fctill  belong  t/>  the  English  classics. 

J'IIJ.NJ-.A:,  Fu-T' ;HI-J{.  —  1584-1C50.     "  Tlje  Purple  Island." 
GII.J-.S  lu.i '  UKK.  —  "  Christ's  Victory  and  Triumph." 

I'lUMJ'  MAJS^INOKK.  — 1584-1640.      Of  his  many  plays,  eighteen  live;  and  "  A 
New  Way  t/>  pay  Old  Debts"  is  still  acted. 

WILMAM  DJWMMOM>.  — 1585-1649.      "  Tlie  Flowers  of  Ziori,"  "Tears  on  the 
Death  of  Matliades,"  "The  Jtjver  of  Eorlh  Fea.-,tijjg,"  and  sonnels. 

./•/j}\     loin).  — 1586-1639.       "Brother   and    Sivtpr."    "Love's    Sacrifice,"   and 
"The  Jiroken  Heart,"  •:•  •:.;  "  J'erkin  \\'nr!>e<;k,"  hi^to/ical  ]>lay. 

Uf  CAKKW.  —  15^- 1  <'/•'/.>.     "  Gcflttia  Uri^ifj.'.irum,"  and  many  lyrics. 
WIMJAM  JJjiOW.NK.  —  l.'/>0-1045.     "  I'>ritannia's  I'  ^d  other  works. 

JiojjKitr    HKHJUC-K.  — 1591-1674.      "To    Iilo>soms,"    "To   Daffodils,"   "Gather 
the  BflMbtldf  wJiile  Ye  may,"  are  some  of  the  delightful  lyrics  from  his  graceful 


WlfKli   WHITISH*  OV   DIMTIMUTIOV,  «.    ; 


i  ,  A  HUM  QI/AMMW,  —  10W-M44,      u  KmblwM,"  "  MvliM  hu,«l««  »  '« 

• 


•  ,  ..JUJK        II,  —        -  u»    *Mip       *  <!o««t<w  o 

JAMM  KimtMtir,  —  IFiim-Wtw.     Writer  of  piny*. 

If..   If  AHIi    HllAnllAW.  '/      H»:,'l         II.  llj/j.iii...   ,„„  I,  ,,   „,,'!   d  ill,  - 

hirJoiiN  huf'KMNU.—  MOO  --l«4l,    f<yrl»l.   "  UulM  on  it  W»«l<!l»»f{," 

i  H..MAN  Wn^>«,  "HyMiAui  of  ftliatwta  m,.i  |/i/{j«  »  n,,.  flr»Ur|i|«»|  work  amu 

ii,<  i  ri  ••  i'  iitnj/iiugu, 

WILLIAM  <!AMI»K»L  —  1WI  -IflM,  "  Hrlt»riril«,"  »»rr«Mv««  of 


i  "  H    •  -  -   "    •  u/rT,—  IflMI-lfllfl,     "VoyHwn  wn/1  f)U«ov«ri««  afrit* 

kllo/iM  of  I^M»'»  "  Afi'lru,"  uii'l  )'.:) 
HAM>  .  .    i     .  '  MAN,—  If/77    I'M,    "  1'iirrtiiiM  liU  \'\\w\inti*t"  *ml  "  I'uHiiM  I»U 

1M  ."i.misiigtt," 

Kiwo   .(AMKM   f,  —  1BM  I«U5,     K'/ynl    (,.,  ),•,,/» 

ll/lttWlN  l>;  TuljfUW,"  '»«'l  fcOlil'i  l',n;/ll  -.It  Wll'l 

n   .1.    -1674-lww.    **(!onf«Mi|»lwtlo»n»  ON  HUiortftuI  l'd»«ii|/««  of  tlin 

O<  /  IIB)/,/IU|  Mu/Hi!(!jj/Mi»("  .:'.n,  .--/,.,  ,u«l  ui|,,.i  •/,, 
—  Ift7«-l«4/),     AMtlnw  //f  f*|fel»rHlMj  "  Aimt/imy  of  " 


i  .../MAN 

j/luye. 
i  -  If/81    l«4»,   w  PiTfHUto^  "  Mf«  Wi/1  IM|/n  of  IfHMry  VKJ," 

ln.'l   ",•  ,,,.,.,      .,1    )M.-.  OW<I  life, 


o 

'  i"  "  AinidU  from  I!M:  ';/«iiti,i//i/  i//  il**}  I'  iill  of  ,luru*ulunn  "  »ti*/l  otlu«r 
/•-/<«  H».M»KN,"*  IW4-l«ft4,     "A  Tr««tf««  wi  Tlfl««  of 

"    '  :.iii.-..i  l/y  Milum  "  UM  '.lu-.i  of  !•:..•.  ,«.'i  ».••,-  ••  j,..n..i  ,,,  i,,..  i.,,,.i  •• 
TIIOMAM  HOMMIW,  -r  ir/fc«-J  «70.    "  /)«  Olvftj  "  "  Unman  NH»ur«!  "  "  Ita 
l'',li'i"/i"  liU  titinnn*  w/»k,"  l^vlttllittMf  "  **  ATlVIM^MlitN  of 
</l    l'lilloiM/j;liy  (  "  >•  '/r'lt*, 

I/.AAK  WAI/PIN.  —  K/f>;i    14*8,    "  '!!)«  (;//ro|/JMf4  AMt 

"  UM*  /,JV<«»  Of  ll'Xiktif,  It'HHH*,  W'/M^/I,  MA 

—  MM  -I'M,    "  J^fuiiiliMr  UU«r»," 
Hlr  TM//MAK  MOHK.  -14««-l«»».    »»  Mfe  w»/i  l(«f^n  «f  Mw*r/l  V,,"  rf»«  flrrt 
crvJutf  Mi«  ni»/»i'«,  M/i'l  ft«rii**t  <•!(•  -/-I'Ml  r,i.(/)i  •)<  (,»•-•••      li/  •  in  .  i 
tnin'mn  work  U  l<i»  "  l.l'/i/ix,"  <J«»/;rJ!/i/<(/v  tt  ^>'f^$t  *tj,u  !/()/;, 


li«,-/k  of 


nun*r\  »'l' 
,rl  of  Hurray).  - 

..»  Ui 


,  of 

/      /•:»/' 


of  MM  H«v*»  l>w«/lly  Ww,"  »"4  'Hlwr  I*#HH,    </'»<M  l/y  »»r 


** 
-  MM, 


G24  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Sir  THOMAS  WYATT.  — 1503-1541.  Remarkable  for  his  scholarship,  wit,  and 
verse. 

Sir  DAVID  LINDSAY.  — 1490 7-1557.  "Play  of  the  Three  Estates,"  "Squire 
Meldrum,"  last  of  the  metrical  romances;  "  The  Monarchic,"  and  "  Complaynt  of 
the  King's  Papingo." 

NICHOLAS  UD ALL.  — 1506 7-1557.  Author  of  "Ralph  Royster  Doyster,"  the 
earliest  existing  English  comedy,  written  about  1550. 

JOHN  FISHER. — 1459  -1535.    Sermons. 

Lord  BERBERS.—  Translated  the  chronicles  of  "  Jean  Froissart." 

ROBERT  FABYAN. —  ?-1512.  "  Concordance  of  Stories,"  a  chronicle  of  English 
history. 

EDWARD  HALL.—  7-1547.    "  History  of  the  Houses  of  York  and  Lancaster." 

Sir  THOMAS  ELYOT.—  7-1546.  "  The  Castle  of  Health,"  "  The  Governor,"  and  a 
Lathi  and  English  dictionary.  His  views  on  education  were  greatly  in  advance  of 
his  time, 

JOHN  BELLENDEN.  Translated  (1536)  Hector  Boece's  "  History  of  Scotland," 
earliest  existing  Scottish  prose  literature ;  "  First  Five  Books  of  Livy ;"  besides  letters 
and  poems.  The  first  original  work  in  Scotch  prose  was  published  in  1548. 

JOHN  LELAND.  — 7-1552.  "  Itinerary  "  and  "  Collectanea."  First  English  anti- 
quary of  note. 

HUGH  LATIMER.  — 14727-1555.    Sermons  and  letters. 

MILES  COVEKDALE.  — 1487-1568.  The  first  printed  translation  of  the  whole 
Bible ;  also  assisted  in  Cranmer's  and  the  Geneva  translations. 

JOHN  BALE.  — 1495-1563.  "Lives  of  Eminent  Writers  of  Great  Britain,"  in 
Latin, — first  author,  Japheth;  "Chronicle  of  Lord  Cobham's  Trial  and  Death;" 
scriptural  dramas. 

JOHN  KNOX.  —  1505-1572.  "  History  of  the  Scottish  Reformation,"  himself  the 
leader. 

GEORGE  CAVENDISH.  —  7-1557.     "  Life  of  Cardinal  Woolsey." 

Sir  JOHN  CHEKE.  —  1514-1557.    "  The  Hurt  of  Sedition." 

JOHN  Fox. — 1517-1587.  Author  of  the  celebrated  work,  "Acts  and  Monu- 
ments of  the  Church,"  or  "  Fox's  Book  of  Martyrs." 

WILLIAM  CAXTON.  — 1412-1491.  At  the  age  of  fifty-nine,  this  remarkable 
man  went  to  Cologne  to  learn  the  printer's  trade;  and  there  finished,  in  1471, 
the  translation  of  a  French  work  by  Raoul  le  FeVre,  "  The  History  of  Troy." 
the  first  English  book  from  any  press.  Soon  after,  having  returned  'to  England, 
was  issued  from  the  Westminster  press  its  earliest  work,  '•  The  Game  and  Playe 
of  the  Chesse,  translated  out  of  the  French,  fynysshed  the  last  day  of  Marche, 
1474."  The  first  English  book  with  woodcut  illustrations  was  a  second  edition 
of  the  same.  Caxton  wrote  or  translated  and  printed  sixty-five  works.  The  in- 
dustry necessary  to  accomplish  so  much  after  an  active  life  'of  threescore  yenrs  is 
the  more  wonde'rful  when  we  consider  that  he  combined  within  himself  the  offices 
of  author,  ink-maker,  compositor,  pressman,  proof-reader,  binder,  publisher,  and 
bookseller. 

WYNKYN  DE  WORDE,  assistant  and  successor  of  Caxton,  printed  four  hundred 
and  eight  works.  RICHARD  PYNSON,  another  assistant,  printed  two  hundred  and 
twelve  works. 


GEOFFREY   CHAUCER.  625 

GEOFFREY    CHAUCER. 

1328? -1400. 

Called  "the  morning-star  of  English  poetry."  Famous  author  of  "The  Can- 
terbury Tales,"  in  which  some  thirty  pilgrims  to  the  tomb  of  Thomas  a  Hecket  are 
to  tell'  two  stories  each,  going  and  returning;  the  poems  being  planned  like  "  Tho 
Decameron  "  of  Boccaccio.  Only  twenty-four  are  told ;  two  of  which,  "  The  Tale  of 
Melibeus"  and  "The  Persones  Tale,"  "are  in  prose;  in  which  style  of  writing  he 
also  excelled.  "  The  Court  of  Love,"  "  Troilus  and  Cresseide,"  "  Romaunt  of  Love," 
"The  House  of  Fame,"  "The  Legende  of  Goode  Women,"  "The  Flour  and  the 
Lefe,"  and  "The  Testament  of  Love,"  in  prose,  are  his  principal  pieces.  Ha!l:irn 
ranks  him  one  of  the  three  great  poets  of  the  middle  ages,  with  Dante  and  Petrarch. 


FROM   THE  PROLOGUE. 
THE   PARSON. 

A  GOOD  man  was  ther  of  religioun, 
And  was  a  pore  persoun  of  a  toun  ; 
But  riche  he  was  of  holy  thought  and  werk : 
He  was  also  a  lerne'd  man,  a  clerk, 
That  Cristes  gospel  truly  wolde  preehe  : 
His  parischens  devoutly  would  he  teche. 
Benigne  he  was,  and  wondur  diligent, 
And  in  adversite  i'ul  pacient. 

Wyd  was  his  parisch,  and  houses  fer  asondur ; 

But  he  ne  lafte  not  for  reyn  ne  thondur, 

In  sicknesse  ne  in  meschief  to  visite 

The  ferrest  in  his  parische,  inoche  and  lite,1 

Uppon  his  feet,  and  in  his  hond  a  staf. 

This  noble  ensample  unto  his  scheep  he  gaf,  — 

That  ferst  he  wroughte,  and  after  that  he  taughte. 

Out  of  the  gospel  he  tho2  wordes  caughte,  — 

That,  if  gold  ruste,  what  sehulde  yren  doo? 

For,  if  a  priest  be  foul  on  whom  we  truste, 

No  wondur  is  a  lewid  man3  to  ruste. 

To  drawe  folk  to  heven  by  fairnesse, 
By  good  ensample,  was  his  busynesse ; 
But  it  were  eny  persone  obstinat, 
What  so  he  were  of  high  or  lowe  estat, 
Him  wolde  he  snybbe  scharply  for  the  nones.4 
A  bettre  priest  I  trowe  ther  nowher  non  is. 
He  waytud  after  no  pomp  ne  reverence ; 
Ne  maked  him  a  spiced  conscience : 
But  Cristes  love,  and  his  apostles  twelve, 
He  taught ;  and  ferst  he  fohved  it  himselve  ! 

1  Great  and  small.  2  Those.  8  A  layman.  4  Nonce. 

40 


626  ENGLISH  LITEKATUKE. 


OTHER   DISTINGUISHED    AUTHORS. 

JOHN  DE  WVCLTFFE.  — 1324? -1384.  Celebrated  English  reformer.  Author  of 
"  Trialogus  "  and  many  other  Latin  works,  and  the  first  English  version  of  the 
whole  Bible. 

JOHN  GOWER. — 1325? -1408.  Poet-friend  of  Chaucer,  but  of  far  less  renown. 
"Speculum  Meditantis"  in  French  (no  copy  preserved),  "  Vox.  Clamantis"  iu 
Latin,  and  "  Confessio  Amantis"  principally  in  English;  the  last  two  preserved. 

KING  JAMES  I.  of  Scotland. — 1394-1437.  "The  King's  Quhair"  (Quire),  a  poem 
of  about  fourteen  hundred  lines,  inspired  by  his  love  for  Joan  Beaufort;  and  other 
shorter  poems. 

LAURENCE  MINOT.  According  to  Dr.  Craik,  the  earliest  writer  of  English  verse 
deserving  the  name  of  poet.  Ten  poems  are  preserved,  celebrating  the  battles  of 
Edward  III. 

ROBERT  LANGLANDE.  —  1300?  Author  of  "The  Vision  of  Piers  (Peter) 
Ploughman  "  and  "Pierce  Plowman's  Crede,"  two  poems,  satirical,  of  the  clergy 
and  the  times. 

A  few  lines  from  "  Piers  Ploughman  "  Avill  illustrate  the  alliterative  form  of 
poetry,  having  the  initial  instead  of  the  terminal  assonance :  — 

In  a  somer  seson, 

Whan  softe  was  the  sonne, 

I  shoop1  me  into  shroudes 

As  I  a  sheep2  weere ; 

In  habite  as  an  heremite 

Unholy  of  workes, 

Wente*  wide  in  this  world 

Wondres  to  here. 

Ac3  on  a  May  Morwenynge, 

On  Malvern  hilles, 

Mebefelaferly:4 

Of  fairye  me  t'hoghte 

I  was  wery  for-wandred, 

And  wente  me  to  reste 

Under  a  brood  bank 

By  a  bournes5  syde ; 

And  as  I  lay  and  lenede, 

And  loked  on  the  watres, 

I  slombred  into  a  sl« 

It  sweyed  so  murye.* 

JOHN  BARBOUR.  —  Born  1316,  or  1330.     "  The  Brace,"  a  Scottish  epic. 

ANDREW  WYNTOUN.  —  1350?  "  An  Orygynale  Cronykil  of  Scotland,"  from  the 
creation  to  1408. 

THOMAS  OCCLEVE.  — Writer  of  nraltitudinous  verses,  to  be  "judged  by  quantity 
rather  than  quality." 

JOHN  LYDGATE.  —  "  History  of  Thebes,"  "  Fall  of  Princes,"  and  "  History  of 
the  Siege  of  Troy." 

BLIND  HARRY.  —  "  The  Wallace,"  an  epic  of  twelve  thousand  lines. 

JOHN  DE  TREVISA.  —  Translated,  about  1387,  "  The  Polychronicon "  and 
other  Latin  works. 

Sir  JOHN  FORTESCUE.  —  Celebrated  author  of  "  De  Laudibus  Legum  Anglise" 
and  of  "  The  DiflFerence  between  an  Absolute  and  a  Limited  Monarchy." 

1  Shaped.        2  Shepherd.       8  And.        4  "Wonder.        5  Stream.        6  Pleasant. 


LATIN  AND  OTHER  WRITERS.  C27 


LATIN,    SAXON-ENGLISH,   AND    NORMAN- 
FRENCH    WRITERS. 

1066-1307. 

"  The  Saxon  Chronicle"  is  continued  to  1154;  but  the  two  principal  work*  of  the 
Saxon-Lug  ish  literature  are  LAYAMON'S  translation  or  imitation  of  WALK'S '•  Brat  * 
and  Ihe  Onnulum,"  written  by  OHM,  or  ORMIN,  a  metrical  paraphrase  of  Scri,V 

WACE  who  died  about  1184,  is  the  most  celebrated  of  the  Norman-French  noets 
His >  principal  poems  are -Brut  d'Angleterre  "  and  -Roman  de  Rou,"  a  twnaK 
of  Gftnrti-pv's  "  History  of  Britain"  in*"  


GEOFFREY  GAIMA.R  wrote  the  "  History  of  the  Angles,"  in  Norman-French.  The 
Norman-Krench  was  the  parertt  of  the  modern  French  ton«nie.  Its  noeN  called 
frouveres,  or  1  rouveurs,  were  the  authors  of  the  poems  called  "  Fabliaux  "  and  the 
AUrio-Nermap  romances,  of  which  the  most  remarkable  are  those  relatin^  to  Kine 
Arthur  and  his  Knights  of  the  Round  Table,  of  whom  we  learn  *omethin|ln  »  ThJ 
Idylls  of  the  King."  But  Latin  was  the  language  of  the  Church  and  the  learned, 
and  of  the  prose  and  poetry  ot  the  age. 

JOSEPHUS  ISCANUS,  or  JOSEPH  OF  EXETER,  wrote  two  epic  poems,  — "Antiocheis  " 
a  story  ot  the  third  crusade,  almost  entirely  lost;  and  "The  Trojan  War"  which  is 
said  to  be  remarkable  for  its  pure  and  harmonious  Latin.  "'The  Confession  of 
Gohas,"  a  drinking-song  in  rhyming  Latin,  satirical  against  the  clergy,  was  written 

INGULPHUS.     "  History  of  the  Abbey  of  Croyland." 

ORDENCUS  VILATIS.    "  Valuable  Church  History,  from'the  Creation  to  1141." 
114Y?,LLIAM  OF  MALMESBURY.    "  History  of  the  English  Kings,  from  the  Saxons  to 

GEOFFREY  OF  MONMOUTH.  "  History  of  the  Britons,"  with  its  celebrated  legends 
of  the  Celts. 

GERALD  BARRY,  BENEDICT,  ROGER  DE  HOVEDEN,  HENRY  OF  HUNTINGDON 
GEKVASE  OF  TILBURY,  and  MATTHEW  PARIS,  were  historians  and  chroniclers. 

There  is  no  end  to  the  wonderful  fictions  of  this  period.  The  most  remarkable 
collection,  perhaps,  is  the  "  Gesta  Romanorum,"  the  great  source  of  inspiration  of 
the  earlier  poets.  The  story  of  the  caskets,  pound  of  flesh,  and  evasion  or  payment, 
in  "  The  Merchant  of  Venice,"  are  found  in  the  •'  Gesta;"  also  the  specter-legend 
of  Scott's  "  Marmion,"  of  "  The  Three  Black  Crows,"  and  other  well-known  jests. 


LATIN,    CELTIC,    AND    ANGLO-SAXON 
WRITERS. 

449-1066. 

IN  the  fifth  century,  there  were  four  languages  used  in  the  British  isles:  — 

1.  Latin,  the  language  of  the  Church  and  the  learned. 

2.  The  Erse,  or  Gaelic,  from  which  the  Scottish  and  Irish. 

3.  The  Cymric,  the  language  of  t,he  Ancient  Britons,  preserved  in  the  Welsh. 
•  4.  The  Anglo-Saxon,  the  backbone  of  the  English. 


G28  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

The  poetic  legends  and  heroic  deeds  of  the  Saxons  were  sung  in  camp,  and  at  the 
festive  board,  in  alliterative  verse,  —  a  style  borrowed  from  the  Northmen,  —  by  the 
Gleeman,  or  Minstrel. 

The  romance  of"  Beowulf,"  a  poem  of  six  thousand  lines,  relates  the  incredible 
exploits  and  dangers  of  a  Danish  soldier. 

The  "Paraphrase"  of  C.EDMOX,  who  was  inspired  in  a  dream  to  sing  (about 
680),  is  regarded  as  one  of  the  oldest  specimens  of  Anglo-Saxon  existing,  —  espe- 
cially the  story  of  the  Creation  and  Fall. 

"  The  Battle  of  Finsborough,"  "  The  Traveler's  Song,"  "  Judith,"  and  "  Athel- 
stane's  Song  of  Victory,"  in  "  The  Chronicle"  of  938,  are  other  Anglo-Saxon  remains. 

KING  ALFRED,  born  848,  is  the  most  distinguished  writer  of  Anglo-Saxon  prose. 
He  gave  his  people  translations,  with  additions  of  his  own  thought  and  knowledge, 
of  Bede's  "Church  History,"  Pope  Gregory's  ''Duties  of  the  Clergy,"  Oro-ius' 
44  Ancient  History,"  Boethius  "  On  the  Consolation  of  Philosophy,"  and*  some  of  the 
"Soliloquies"  of  St.  Augustine  of  Hippo. 

ALFIUC  (died  1008)  wrote  eighty  "Homilies"  for  the  common  people,  "  Latin 
Grammar,"  "  Glossary,"  and  "  Book  of  Conversation." 

"  The  Saxon  Chronicle  "  is  supposed  to  have  been  commenced  by  PLEGMUNP, 
primate  of  Alfred's  time,  written  in  the  monasteries,  bearing  different  dates,  closing 
wirli  1154.  King  Alfred's  Will,  some  homilies,  and  a  few  other  works,  are  all  that  re- 
main of  Anglo-Saxon  prose. 

The  most  important  of  the  Latin  authors  and  their  numerous  works  are,  — 

ALDIIELM.  —  Author  of  a  book  of  riddles,  and  much  poor  Latin  prose  and 
verse. 

BEI>E.  —  The  celebrated  author  of  "  The  History  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  Church," 
and  forty  other  theological  and  scientific  works;  also  translation  of  John's  Gospel 
into  Anglo-Saxon. 

ALCUIX.  —  The  learned  friend  and  companion  of  Charlemagne.  Wrote  much  on 
theology  and  church  history. 

ERIGEXA  (John  Scotus).  —  An  Irishman,  the  Irish  being  called  Scots  until  about 
1000,  when  the  name  was  transferred  to  the  North  Britons.  Was  one. of  the  most 
learned  men  of  his  time.  Author  of  works  on  "  Predestination,"  "  The  Eucharist," 
and  "  On  the  Division  of  Nature." 

DCXSTAX.  — The  famous  Archbishop  of  Canterbury:  wrote  many  learned  theolo- 
gical works. 

Of  the  Celtic  writers,  GILDAS,  NEXXIUS,  and  ST.  COLUMBAXUS,  wrote  also  in  Latin. 
In  Wales,  the  poems  of  TALIESIX,  MERLIN,  and  other  bards  of  the  sixth  century,  are 
extant.  Of  the  Scottish  Gaelic,  the  poems  of  OSSIAX —  "  Fingal  "  and  u  Temora  "  — 
are  considered  forgeries,  committed  by  the  pretended  translator,  JAMES  MACPHEHSOX, 
about  1760.  But  Ireland  claims  the  oldest  specimens  of  all  literature  in  modern 
Europe.  "The  Annals,"  scraps  of  contemporary  history  in  Irish  verse  from  the 
fifth  century,  "The  Psalter  of  Cashel,"  and  "The  Annals  of  Tigernach  and  of 
the  Four  Masters  of  Ulster,"  belong  to  the  ninth  and  eleventh  centuries. 


SIR   JOHN   DE   MANDEYILLE. 

1300? -1372. 

Was  the  earliest  writer  of  an  English  prose-work  that  has  been  preserved.  He 
wrote  a  narrative  of  his  traveU,  in  Latin;  afterwards  translated  by  himself 
into  French,  then  into  English.  He  was  a  traveler  the  most  of  his  life;  and  his 
narrative  abounds  in  marvelous  stories.  We  give  a  short  extract  from  — 


SOURCES   OF  T1IE  ENGLISH  LANGUAGE.  629 


THE   PROLOGUE. 

for  als  moclie  as  it  is  longo  tyme  passed,  that  thcr  was  no 
generalle  Passage  lie  Vyage  over  the  See ;  and  many  Men  desirea 
for  to  here  speke  of  the  holy  Loud,  and  him1  thereof  gret  Solace 
and  Comfort ;  I  John  Maimdevylle,  Knyght,  alle  be  it  I  be  not 
worthi,  that  was  born  in  Englond,  in  the  Town  of  Seynt  Alboiies, 
passed  the  See,  in  the  Zeer  of  our  Lord  Jesu  Crist  MCCCXXII, 
in  the  Day  of  Seynt  Michelle ;  and  hidre  to2  have  been  longe 
tyme  over  the  See,  and  have  seyn  and  gon  thorghe  manye  dy  verso 
Londes,  and  many  Provynces  and  Kingdomes  and  lies,  and  have 
passed  thorghe  Tartarye,  Percye,  Ermonye3  the  litylle  and  the 
grete";  thorghe  Lybye,  Caldee  and  a  gret  partie  of  Ethiope; 
thorghe  Amazoyne,  Inde  the  lasse  and  the  more,  a  gret  partie  ; 
and  thorghe  out  manyothere  lies,  that  ben  abouten  Inde;  where 
dwellen  many  dyverse  Folkes,  and  of  dyverse  Maneres  and 
Lawes,  and  of  dyverse  Schappes  of  men.  Of  whiche  Londes  and 
lies,  I  schalle  speke  more  pleynly  hereaftre.  And  I  schalle  deviso 
zou  sum  partie  of  thinges  that  there  ben,  whan  time  schalle  ben, 
aftre  it  may  best  come  to  my  mynde ;  and  specyally  for  hem,  that 
wylle  and  are  in  purpos  for  to  visite  the  Holy  Citee  of  Jerusalem, 
and  the  holy  Places  that  are  thereaboute.  And  I  schalle  telle 
the  Weye,  that  thei  schulle  holden  thidre.  For  I  have  often 
tymes  passed  and  ryden  the  way,  with  gode  Companye  of  many 
Lordes  :  God  be  thonked. 

And  zee  schulle  undirstonde,  that  I  have  put  this  Boke  out  of 
Latyn  into  Frensche,  and  translated  it  azen  out  of  Frensche  into 
Englyssche,  that  every  Man  of  my  Nacioun  may  undirstonde  it. 
But  Lordes  and  Knyghtes  and  otheie  noble  and  worthi  Men, 
that  co nne  Latyn  but  litylle,  and  han  ben  bezonde  the  See, 
knowen  and  undirstondeii,  zif  I  erre  in  devisynge,  or  forzetynge, 
or  elles  ;  that  thei  mowe4  redresse  it  and  amende  it.  For  thinges 
passed  out  of  longe  tyme  from  a  Mannes  mynde  or  from  his  syght, 
turnen  sone  in  forzetynge :  Because  that  Mynde  of  Manne  may 
not  ben  comprehended  ne  witheholden,  for  the  Freeltee  of  Man- 
kynde. 


SOURCES    OF    THE    ENGLISH   LANGUAGE. 

MODERN  English,  in  the  formation  of  its  words  and  grammati- 
cal structure  of  its  sentences,  dates  from  about  A.P.  1500.  Its 
vocabulary,  of  course,  has  been  constantly  increasing,  from  the 
adoption  of  foreign  words  and  the  growth  of  old  and  new  sciences. 

i  Kavo.  2  Hitherto.  8  Armenia.  *  May. 


630  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

The  limits  of  this  work  will  not  allow  any  reference  to  modern 
speculations  and  theories  of  the  formation  of  language,  nor  of 
comparative  philology,  nor  of  the' progress  of  written  language 
from  rude  picture-writing  and  Egyptian  hieroglyphics  to  its  pres- 
ent character.  For  all  these,  the  student  must  consult  the  pref- 
aces of  the  large  dictionaries,  and  the  works  of  modern  philolo- 
gists, grammars,  and  encyclopaedias.* 


GRAMMAR. 

ENGLISH  grammar,  as  to  its  system  of  etymology  and  syntax, 
is  Anglo-Saxon  in  its  distinctive  characteristics.  It  is  simpler 
than  the  Anglo-Saxon,  from  having  lost  several  inflectional  ter- 
minations of  words ;  and  its  syntax  could  be  reduced  still  more 
by  abolishing  case  altogether,  regarding  all  possessives  as  adjec- 
tives. "  Our  chief  peculiarities  of  structure  and  of  idiom  are  essen- 
tially Anglo-Saxon;  while  almost  all  the  classes  of  words  which 
it  is  the  office  of  grammar  to  investigate  are  derived  from  that 
language.  Thus  the  few  inflections  we  have  are  all  Anglo-Saxon. 
The  English  grnitive,  the  general  modes  of  forming  the  plural  of 
nouns,  and  the  terminations  by  which  we  express  the  compara- 
tive and  superlative  of  adjectives  (-er  and  -est)  ;  the  inflections 
of  the  pronouns ;  those  of  the  second  and  third  persons,  present 
and  imperfect,  of  the  verbs ;  the  inflections  of  the  preterites  and 
participles  of  the  verbs,  whether  regular  or  irregular;  and  the 
most  frequent  termination  of  our  adverbs  (-ly)?  —  are  all  Anglo- 
Saxon.  The  nouns,  too,  derived  from  Latin  and  Greek,  receive 
the  Anglo-Saxon  terminations  of  the  genitive  and  plural ;  while 
the  preterites  and  participles  of  verbs  derived  from  the  same 
sources  take  the  Anglo-Saxon  inflections.  As  to  the  parts  of 
speech,  those  which  occur  most  frequently,  and  are  individually 
of  most  importance,  are  almost  wholly  Saxon.  Such  are  our  arti- 
cles and  definitives  generally,  —  as  'a,  an,  the,  this,  that,  these, 
those,  many,  few,  some,  one,  none ; '  the  adjectives  whose  com- 
paratives and  superlatives  are  irregularly  formed;  the  separate 
words  'more'  and  'most,'  by  which  we  express  comparison  as 
often  as  by  distinct  terminations;  all  our  pronouns, — personal, 
possessive,  relative,  and  interrogative ;  nearly  every  one  of  our  so- 
called  irregular  verbs,  including  all  the  auxiliaries,  'have,  be, 
shall,  will,  may,  can,  must,'  by  which  we  express  the  force  of  the 

*  Webster's,  Worcester's,  Richardson's,  Walker's,  and  Johnson's  Dictionaries :  Cham- 
bers', Rees',  Edinburgh,  and  Metropolitan  Encyclopaedias;  Lectures  of  Max  Miiller  and 
of  G!  P.  Marsh. 

Latham's  "English  Language;"  "Diversions  of  Purley,"  by  Tooke;  "Study  of 
Words,"  by  Trench;  Crabb's  "  Synonyms; "  Prof.  Craik's  Works;  Rask's  "  Anglo-Saxon 
Grammar." 


SOURCES  OP  THE  ENGLISH  LANGUAGE.  C31 

principal  varieties  of  mood  and  tense  ;  all  the  adverbs  most  fre- 
quently employed  ;  and  the  prepositions  und  conjunctions  almost 
without  exception."  * 

The  English  language,  like  the  Continental  languages  of  Eu- 
rope, substitutes  new  forms  of  expression  for  inflections,  and,  as  is 
reasonable  to  suppose,  becomes  more  and  more  perfect  as  its  gram- 
mar becomes  simpler. 


THE  DICTIONARY. 

THE  language  derives  its  words  from,  — 

1.  The  Anglo-Saxon,  —  above  twenty  thousand. 

2.  Latin  and  Greek,  many  of  the  latter  coining  through  the 
Latin. 

3.  French,  other  languages,  and  provincialisms. 

Prom  the  Anglo-Saxon  come  the  words,  and  parts  of  words,  indi- 
cating relations  ;  also  the  adjectives,  nouns,  and  verbs  classed 
as  irregular,  the  same  being  words  of  most  common  use  in  the  lan- 
guage; the  names  of  objects  of  most  frequent  and  striking  oc- 
currence, —  sun,  moon,  stars,  land,  water,  wood,  stream,  hill,  and 
dale ;  horse,  cow,  and  the  most  common  animals  and  plants ; 
spring,  summer,  winter,  light,  darkness,  heat,  cold,  rain,  snow, 
thunder  and  lightning;  sounds,  postures,  and  motions  of  animal 
life.  Specific  terms  render  style  more  animated,  forcible.  Our 
specific  terms  are  generally  Anglo-Saxon.  Color  is  Latin,  as 
most  ot  our  abstract  terms  are,  or  French ;  but  red,  yellow,  blue, 
white,  black,  green,  and  brown  are  Anglo-Saxon.  Motion  is 
Latin ;  but  leap,  spring,  stagger,  slip,  slide,  glide,  fall,  walk,  run, 
swim,  ride,  creep,  crawl,  and  fly  are  Anglo-Saxon.  Affection  and 
animation  are  Latin ;  but  love,  hate,  hope,  fear,  gladness,  sorrow, 
weeping,  laughter,  smile,  tear,  sigh,  groan,  father,  mother,  man, 
wife,  child,  son,  daughter,  kindred  and  friends,  home,  hearth,  roof, 
fireside,  and  many  other  of  the  most  touching  words  in  the  lan- 
guage, and  most  frequently  on  the  tongue,  are  Anglo-Saxon,  and, 
for  the  greater  part,  "  the  language  of  business,  of  the  counting- 
house,  the  shop,  the  market,  the  street,  the  farm."  The  principal 
and  most  forcible  language  of  invective,  humor,  satire,  and  pleas- 
antry, is  Anglo-Saxon. 

From  the  Latin  and  French,  it  being  difficult  always  to  tell 
which,  since  the  French  itself  is  from  the  Latin,  are  coin  (colo- 
nia),  in  Lincoln,  chester  from  castrum,  monk,  bishop,  saint,  min- 
ister, porch,  cloister,  mass,  psalter,  chalice,  pall,  candle,  most  gen- 
eral and  abstract  words,  and  many  thousand  terms  of  theology, 
metaphysics,  and  all  the  old  and  new  sciences.  The  nomencla- 
tures of  modern  sciences  manufacture  much  from  the  Greek. 

*  Edinburgh  Review,  vol.  Ixx.,  1839. 


G32  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

In  tlie  analysis  of  words,  as  a  general  rule,  the  prefixes, 

n,  no,  not,  uu,  negatives ; 

a,  e,  y,  a  (for  an),  be,  en,  and  for,  interims ; 

a,  be,  em,  en,  for,  fore,  gain,  off,  on,  out,  to,  un  (an  or  on),  un- 
der, up,  ^vith,  relatives,  are  Anglo-Saxon,  or  of  Teutonic  origin. 

From  Latin  and  French  are 

in,  i,  il,  im,  ir,  n,  ne,  non,  negatives. 

Ad,  a,  ac,  af,  ay,  al,  am,  an,  ap,  ar,  as,  at,  with  force  of  to  ad- 
dition ;  ab,  abs,  a,  from ;  ambi,  amb,  about ;  ante,  ant,  before ;  cir- 
cum,  cis,  cm,  co,  cog,  col,  com,  cor,  conn,  with  ;  contra,  contro, 
counter;  de,  dis,  di,  dif;  en,  ex,  e,  ec,  ef;  extra;  in,  il,  im,  ir,  en, 
em,  indi,  ind,  infra,  inter,  intra,  intro,  enter,  juxta ;  ob,  obs,  oc,  of, 
op,  os ;  per,  post,  pre,  prre,  praeter,  pro,  pur ;  re,  red,  retro ;  se, 
sans,  sine,  sue,  suf,  sug,  sum,  sup,  sub,  subter,  super,  supra,  sur; 
trans,  tran,  tra ;  ultra,  ult,  ulter,  outr. 

From  Greek  are  a,  an,  apo,  aph,  amphi,  ana,  an,  anti,  ant, 
anth  ;  cata,  cat,  cath  ;  dia,  dea,  de ;  en,  em,  endo,  ento,  epi,  ep, 
eph,  ex,  ec;  hyper,  hypo;  meta,  meth ;  para,  par,  pa,  peri,  pros; 
syn,  sy,  syl,  sym. 

Examining  the  definitions,  with  the  dictionary,  of  a  few  words 
having  the  same  prefix,  will  fix  the  force  of  it  securely  in  the  pu- 
pil's memory. 

SUFFIXES. 

OF  Nouxs, —  r,  ar,  er,  or,  ster,  en,  ess,  et,  let,  kin,  ling,  ock, 
th,  t,  ing,  head,  hood,  ness,  doin,  ship,  sou,  burn,  are  from  the 
mother-tongue. 

Latin  and  French  :  an,  ean,  ian,  ine,  ant,  ent,  or,  er,  eer,  ary, 
at,  ate,  ee,  ine ;  ix,  cle,  cule,  ule,  age,  ry,  si  ox,  TIOX,  ure,  ture,  cy, 
ty,  ance,  ence,  ancy,  ency,  ment,  escence,  ory. 

Greek :  ic,  iac,  ician,  is,  ism,  cy,  sy,  ty. 

OF  ADJECTIVES  AXD  ADVERBS,  —  er,  or,  est,  st,  en,  ch,  ern, 
ese,  esque,  ful,  ing,  y,  ish,  less,  ly,  some,  ward,  n,  s,  ce,  st,  xt, 
ways,  wise,  are  our  own. 

Latin  and  French :  ble,  able,  ible,  ic,  fie,  ceous,  cious,  tious,  id, 
al,  il,  ite,  le^eel,  nal,  an,  ain,  ean,  ian,  ane,  ene,  ine,  end,  cund, 
ant,  ent,  ar,  ary,  ory,  t,  ate,  ete,  ive,  lent,  ose,  ous,  pie,  plex,  se, 
a,  tim. 

Greek :  ac,  ic,  id,  oid,  gen. 

OF  VERBS.  —  Those  in  ate,  esce,  fy,  ise,  ish,  are  from  French 
and  Latin ;  ize,  from  the  Greek ;  en,  er,  are  Anglo-Saxon. 

Besides  the  derivatives  formed  by  the  use  of  one  or  more  pre- 
fixes or  suffixes,  or  both,  there  is  no  limit  to  the  number  of  com- 
pounds from  two  or  more  simples.  Indeed,  so  simple  is  its  syntax, 
and  so  limited  its  inflections,  that,  without  danger  of  ambiguity 


SOURCES   OP  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  633 

or  obscurity  in  the  meaning  intended,  the  English  language 
readily  adopts  all  names,  transforms  them  into  all  necessary  parts 
of  speech,  retaining  all  the  elegance,  and  softening  all  the  harsh- 
ness of  its  borrowed  elements,  with  so  much  ease  and  rapidity, 
that  the  capacity  of  its  vocabulary,  now  numbering  about  a  hun- 
dred and  fifteen  thousand  words,  seems  limited  only  by  the  objects 
of  sense  and  the  thoughts  and  deeds  of  men.  By  discovery  and 
invention,  \vords  fall  into  disuse,  or  become  obsolete  in  one  or  more 
senses,  and  receive  a  new  signification.  New  words  are  made  by 
change  of  spelling,  by  addition,  transposition,  or  dropping  of  let- 
ters. 

Notwithstanding  the  rapid  increase,  in  the  whole  number  of 
words,  of  the  words  in  actual  use,  the  greater  per  cent  are  Anglo- 
Saxon  :  of  Shakspeare  and  the  New  Testament,  about  ninety  per 
cent;  of  Milton  and  Pope,  about  eighty;  Webster  and  Junius, 
seventy-five.  Of  the  whole  number  of  words,  it  has  been  esti- 
mated that  about  sixty  per  cent  are  really  Anglo-Saxon  in  origin; 
thirty  per  cent,  Latin  and  Trench  ;  five,  Greek ;  and  five,  miscella- 
neous. 


SOURCES    OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

THE  geometer  solves  a  few  only  of  the  infinite  variety  of  prob- 
lems involving  the  general  principles  and  methods  of  reasoning 
he  has  learned;  and  yet  he  may  with  truth  be  accounted  skillful 
in  his  science.  The  architect  would  miserably  waste  his  time 
examining  every  ant-hill  and  log-cabin  in  the  land  for  fear  the 
number  and  builders  of  them  would  be  unknown  to  him ;  though 
architecture,  in  its  broadest  sense,  might  include  every  structure 
built  by  man  or  other  animal.  In  almost  any  one  branch  of  the 
modern  sciences,  facts  have  accumulated  to  such  an  extent  as  to 
render  an  accurate  knowledge  of  them,  and  of  the  circumstances 
of  their  discovery,  utterly  beyond  the  ability  of  any  single  mind 
profitably  to  retain.  The  literature  of  the  English  language,  in  the 
broadest  sense,  may  be  said  to  include  all  manuscripts  and  books 
written  in  English  ;  yet  a  comparatively  few  of  them,  and  of  their 
authors,  can  be  profitably  known  by  the  student.  It  is  impossible 
for  him,  to  say  nothing  of  the  past,  to  read  a  tithe  of  what  is  writ- 
ten at  the  present  time.  He  should  not  attempt  this;  his  imme- 
diate want  being  a  critical  knowledge  of  the  rules  applicable  to 
all  styles,  and  the  productions  of  a  few  authors  who  are  admitted 
to  be  masters,  each  of  his  own  style.  Believing  the  study  and 
imitation  of  the  styles  of  a  few  authors  to  be  of  so  much  more 
importance  to  the  young  student,  we  would  not,  for  purposes  of 


C34  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

general  education,  burden  him  with  learning  carefully  the  history 
of  English  literature,  leading  him  from  the  bardic  mummery  of 
the  Druid  priests,  through  the  monkish  chronicles  of  the  Saxon 
and  semi-Saxon  periods,  along  the  theological  and  metaphysical 
dark  ages,  down  to  the  period  of  the  revival  of  learning;  all 
which,  undoubtedly,  would  be  entertaining  and  instructive  to  him, 
but  can  be  easily  and  profitably  deferred  to  subsequent  leisure. 
The  printing-establishment  of  the  indefatigable  Caxton  and  that 
of  "The  London  Times,"  or  of  a  modern  publishing-house,  are  emi- 
nently typical  of  the  literature  of  the  fifteenth  century  and  that  of 
the  nineteenth.  Besides  translations  of  the  best  works  of  foreign 
authors,  the  principal  sources  of  modern  English  literature  are, — 

1.  Poetry,  of  which  the  principal  kinds    are   the   epic,  lyric, 
-and  didactic.     The  proper  epic  is  illustrated  in  "Paradise  Lost;" 

the  burlesque, in  "Hudibras."  Under  the  epic  is  classed,  by  some, 
the  dramatic,  and,  indeed,  all  poetry  not  didactic,  lyric,  or  ele- 
giac. Of  the  lyric  are  the  ode,  song,  and  sacred  lyrics,  psalm 
and  hymn.  With  the  elegiac  proper  is  classed  the  sonnet.  Ac- 
cording to  the  subject,  poetry  is  historical,  narrative,  descriptive, 
pastoral,  satirical  or  humorous,  and  didactic;  having  one  or  several 
of  these  elements.  It  is  not  more  difficult  to  find  prose  that  is 
poetical  than  to  find  poetry  that  is  prosaic ;  since  neither  rhymes 
nor  measures  are  alone  essential  to  poetry.  It  is  impossible  to 
predict  of  modern  poetry,  or,  indeed,  of  modern  literature,  what 
will  be  permanent;  time  alone  can  do  that:  but  of  this  we  can  be 
assured,  that  scattered  through  it  all  are  the  elements  of  heroic 
poetry  and  lofty  prose  infinitely  more  numerous  than  when  the 
present  great  masterpieces  were  executed;  that  noble  thoughts 
and  deeds,  marvelous  workings  of  man  and  nature,  far  excel  in 
number  and  magnitude  the  imaginary  exploits  of  chivalrous 
knight,  or  even  of  heathen  demi-god.  The  facts  of  modern  sci- 
ence, the  revelations  of  the  telescope,  microscope,  and  the  spec- 
troscope, excel  in  grandeur  and  beauty  the  most  poetical  fancies 
of  ancient  or  modern  poet. 

2.  Fiction,  historical,  political,  romantic,  allegorical,  mythical, 
and  legendary.      Indeed,  here  the  field  is  boundless,  and  must 
be  entered  upon  with  a  faithful  guide.      During  the  period  of 
school,  none  of  it  should  be  read  by  the  pupil,  except  under  the 
direction  of  the  teacher. 

3.  Histories,  biographies,  memoirs,  essays,  criticisms,  lectures, 
orations,  speeches,  sermons,  debates,  and  dissertations. 

4.  Periodicals,  —  newspapers,  magazines,  reviews,  and  encj'clo- 
paedias. 

5.  Dramatic  writings,  —  tragedy,    comedy,   farce,    opera,    and 
whatever  may  be  written  for  the  stage. 


INDEX   OF  AUTHORS. 


PAGE. 

ABBOTT,  Jacob 200 

Abercrombic,  John 379 

Addison,  Joseph 506 

Ainsworth,  William  H 226 

Akenside,  Mark 470 

Alcuin 628 

Aldhelm 628 

Alfric 628 

Alison,  Sir  Archibald 343,  378 

Arbuthnot,  John 548 

Arnold,  Matthew 265 

Arnold,  Thomas 344 

Ascham,  Roger 622 

Audubon ,  John  James 201 

Austen,  Jane 398 

Aytoun,  William  E 264 

Bacon,  Francis  (Viscount  St.  Alban's),  559 

Bacon,  Leonard 190 

Bailey,  Philip  James 264 

Baillie,  Joanna'. 414 

Bale,  John 624 

Bancroft,  George 202 

Banin,  John 226 

Barbour,  John 626 

Barclay,  Alexander 623 

Barclay,  Robert 548 

Barham,  Richard 415 

Barnes,  Albert 190 

Barrow,  Isaac 558 

Barry,  Gerald 627 

Baxter,  Richard 547 

Bayley,  Thomas  Haynes 265 

.  Beattie,  James 471 

Beaumont,  Francis 622 

Beckett,  a,  Gilbert  Abbott 266 

Beckford,  William 398 

Beddoes,  Thomas  Lovell 2G6 

Bede 628 

Beecher,  Henry  Ward 104 


Bellenden,  John 

Benedict 

Bentham,  Jeremy 

Bentley,  Richard 

Berkeley,  George 

Bethune,  George  W 

Bible,  the  ... 


Blackstone,  Sir  William 

Blair,  Hugh 

Blair,  Robert 

Blessington,  Countess  of 

Blind  Harry 

Bloomfield,  Robert 

Borrow,  George 

Boswell,  James 

Bowles,  William  L 

Bowring,  Sir  John 

Boyle,  Robert 

Brewstcr,  Sir  David 

Bronte,  Charlotte 

Brooks,  Maria 

Brooks,  Shirley 226, 

Brough,  Robert  B 

Brougham  (Lord)  Henry 

Brown,  Charles  Brockden 

Brown,  Frances 

Brown,  Thomas  

Browne,  Sir  Thomas 

Browne,  William 

Browning,  Elizabeth  Barrett 

Bruce,  Michael 

Brunton,  Mary 

Bryant,  William  Cullen 

Brydges,  Sir  Egerton 

Buchanan,  George 

Buckingham,  Joseph  T 

Buckland,  William  

Buckle,  Henry  Thomas 

Bunyan,  John 

Burke,  Edmund 

035 


10K. 

624 
627 
378 
548 
520 
190 
563 
471 
471 
520 
393 
626 
414 
344 
471 
414 
344 
653 
346 
220 
103 
•:  M 
-.; 
378 
201 
265 
378 
5J3 
622 
231 
414 
398 
40 
378 
6±2 
191 
340 
343 
53-J 
415 


636 


INDEX   OF   AUTHORS. 


PAGE. 

Burnet,  Gilbert 548 

Burnet,  Thomas 548 

Burney,  Frances 398 

Burns,  Robert 407 

Burton,  John  Hill 345 

Burton,  Robert 623 

Bushnell,  Horace 190 

Butler,  Samuel 543 

Byron  (Lord),  George  Gordon  .   379 

Caedmon 628 

Camden,  William  623 

Campbell  (Lord) 344 

Campbell,  Thomas 309 

Carew,  Thomas 622 

Carey,  Henry  C 201 

Carleton,  William 226 

Carlyle,  Thomas 347 

Cavendish,  George 624 

Caxton,  William 624 

Chalmers,  George 397 

Chalmers,  Thomas 345 

Chamberlayne,  William 558 

Chambers,  Robert 344 

Channing,  William  Ellery 189 

Chatterton,  Thomas 471 

Chaucer,  Geoffrey 625 

Cheever,  George  B 190 

Cheke,  Sir  John 624 

Child,  Lydia  Maria 200 

Churchill,  Charles 471 

Clare,  John 265 

Clarke,  Adam 379 

Clarke,  Samuel 520 

Clarke,  Sarah  Jane 103 

Cobbett,  William  378 

Coleridge,  Derwent 265 

Coleridge,  Hartley 265 

Coleridge,  Samuel  Taylor 293 

Coleridge,  Sara 265 

Collins,  Wilkie 226,  266 

Collins,  William 470 

Colman,  George 415 

Colman,  George,  the  Younger 415 

Combe,  George 378 

Combe,  William 378 

Congreve,  William 548 

Cook,  Eliza 265 

Cooke,  Wingrove 34i 

Cooper,    Anthony    Ashley    (Earl    of 

Shaftesbury) 520 

Cooper,  James  -Fenimore. 192 

Cotton,  Charles 558 

Coverdale,  Miles 624 


Cowley,  Abraham 5.")8 

CJowper,  William 399 

Coxe,  William 397 

Crabbe,  George 413 

Cranmer,  Thomas 623 

Crashaw,  Richard 623 

Croker,  John  Wilson 378 

Croly,  George 414 

Crowe,  Catharine 225 

Cudworth,  Ralph 558 

Cumberland,  Richard 415 

Cunningham,  Allan 414 

Curtis,  George  William 192 

Dalrymple,  David 397 

Dana,  Richard  H 103 

Daniel,  Samuel G22 

Darwin,  Erasmus 471 

Davenant,  Sir  William 558 

Davis,  John  Francis 1344 

Davy,  Sir  Humphry 378 

Defoe,  Daniel 498 

Dekker,  Thomas -. 023 

Denham,  Sir  John  558 

Dennie,  Joseph 191 

De  Quincey,  Thomas 361 

Dickens,  Charles 203 

Dillon,  Wentworth 547 

Disraeli,  Benjamin 225 

Disraeli,  Isaac 378 

Doddridge,  Philip 471 

Douglas,  Gawin 623 

Drayton,  Michael 622 

Drummond,  William 022 

Dryden,  John : C21 

Dunbar,  William C>23 

Dunstan 628 

Dyer,  John 520 

Edgeworth,  Maria 398 

Edwards,  Jonathan 189 

Eliot,  George 226 

Elliott,  Ebenezer 415 

Ellis,  Sarah 346 

Elyot,  Sir  Thomas 624 

Emerson,  Ralph  Waldo 131 

Erigena  (John  Scotus) 628 

Evelyn,  John 558 

Everett,  Alexander  H 191 

Everett,  Edward 281 

Fabyan,  Robert 624 

Falconer,  William 471 

Faraday,  Michael 346 


INDEX   OF   AUTHORS. 


087 


PAOE. 

Farquhar,  George 548 

Ferguson,  Adam ...  '. 471 

Ferguson,  Robert 414 

Ferrier,  M.iry 398 

Fisher,  John 624 

Fletcher,  Giles 62-i 

Fletcher,  John 622 

Fletcher,  Phineas 62^ 

Footc,  Samuel 471 

Ford,  John 622 

Ford,  Richard 344 

Forster,  John 344 

Fortescue,  Sir  John 626 

Foster,  John 378 

Fox,  John 6^4 

Franklin,  Benjamin 201,  452 

Frcre,  J.  Hookham 414 

Froude,  James  Anthony 343 

Fuller,  Thomas 558 

Gaimar,  Geoffrey 627 

Gait,  John 398 

Garrick,  David 471 

Gaskell,  Elizabeth 226 

Gauden,  John 558 

Gay,  John 520 

Gervase  of  Tilbury 627 

Geoffrey  of  Monmouth 627 

Gibbon,  Edward 397 

Gifford,  William 414 

Gildas 628 

Gleig,  George 226 

Godwin,  William. 398 

Goldsmith,  Oliver 458 

Goodrich,  Samuel  G 200 

Gore,  Catherine .  220 

Gower,  John C28 

Grahame,  James 414 

Grant,  James 223 

Grattan,  Thomas  C 398 

Gray,  Thomas 467 

Greene,  Robert 622 

Griffin,  Gerald 226 

Griswold,  Rufus  Wilmot 191 

Grote,  George '. 344 

Hakluyt,  Richard 623 

Hall,  Anna  M 226 

Hall,  Edward 624 

Hall,  Joseph 623 

Hall,  Robert 379 

Hallam ,  Henry  397 

Halleck,  Fitz-Greene 103 

Hamilton,  Alexander 190 


Hamilton,  Elizabeth  ...................  3j» 

Hamilton.  Sir  William  ................  3lfl 

llanimy,  James  .......................  226 

Ilawes,  Stephen  .......................  fi-J3 

Hawthorne.  Nathaniel  .................  175 

Hazlitt,  William  .......................  378 

Head,  Sir  Francin  .....................  344 

Ileber,  Reginald  .......................  414 

Helps,  Arthur  .........................  346 

Hemans,  Felicia  .......................  414 

Henry  of  IIuntingdo:i  .................  627 

Henry,  Matthew  ......................  548 

Henryson,  Robert  .....................  623 

Herbert,  George  .......................  623 

TIcrrick,  Robert  .......................  622 

TIerschel,  Sir  John  ....................  378 

Hervcy,  Thomas  Kibble  ...............  205 

Hey  wood,  John  .......................  623 

Ilildreth,  Richard  .....................  202 

Hillard,  George  Stillman  ..............   191 

Hobbes,  Thomas  .................  ....     623 

Hoffman,  Charles  Fcnno  ...............  103 

Hogg,  James  ......................  ____  414 

Holcroft,  Thomas  ............  ........  415 

Holland,  Josiah  Gilbert  ...............  192 

Holmes,  Oliver  Wendell  ...............     77 

Homes,  Henry  (Lord  Kames)  ..........   620 

Hood,  Thomas  ........................  303 

Hook,  Walter  F  .......................  344 

Hooker,  Richard  ......................  622 

Hope,  Thomas  ........................  398 

Hopkins,  Mark  ........................  190 

Ilopkinson,  Francis  ...................  191 

Ilopkinson  ,  Joseph  ....................  103 

Home,  John  ..........................  470 

Home,  Richard  Henry  ................  285 

Hovedcn,  de,  Roger  ........   ..........  627 

Howard,  Henry  (Earl  of  Surrey)  ......  623 

Tlowell  James  .........................  6,'3 

Hughes,  Thomas  ......................  226 

Hume,  David  .........................  445 

Hunt,Leigh  .......................  414 

Hyde,  Edward  (Earl  of  Clarendon)  ----  558 

Inchbald,  Elizabeth  ...................  308 

Ingelow,  Jean  .........................  2tJ5 

Inglis,  Henry  D  .......................  344 

Ingulphus  .............................  <>27 

Innes,  Cosmo  ......................  ...  344 

Irving,  Edward  .......................  379 

Irving,  Washington  ............. 

Iscanus,  Josephus,  or  Josc-ph  of  Exeter,  627 


James,  G.  P.  II 


638 


INDEX   OF   AUTHORS. 


Jameson,  Anna 


PAOE. 

343 


Lydgate,  John  ........................  626 


Lj*ell,  Sir  Charles  .....................  346 

Lytton,  Sir  Edward  Bulwcr  ...........  225 


Jay.  John 190 

Jay,  William 191 

Jefferson,  Thomas 191 

Jeffrey,  Francis  ( Lord) 378    Macaulay,  Thomas  Babington 321 

Jerrold,  Douglas 225    Macdonald,  George 265 

Jewsbury,  Geraldine 226    Mackay,  Charles 265 

Johnson.  Samuel 431    Mackensie.  Henry 398 

Jones,  Sir  William 414    Macpherson,  James  471,  628 

Jon  son,  Ben 622    Madison,  James 190 

Junius , 423    Mandeville,  Sir  John  de 628 

j  Mantel,  Gideon 346 

Keats,  John 414    Marlowe,  Christopher 622 

Keblc,  John 415    Marryatt,  Frederick 2J5 

Key,  Francis  S 103    Marsh,  Anne 226 

King,  Alfred 62S    Marshall,  John 190 

King  James  I.  of  Scotland 626    Mnrston,  Westland 266 

King  James  1 623    Martineau,  Harriet 345 

Kinglake,  Alexander  W 344    Marvel,  Andrew 


Kingsley,  Charles  . . . 


225    Mason.  William  C....  471 


Kirkland,  Caroline  M 201    Massey,  Gerald 265 

Knight,  Charles 344    Massinger,  Philip 622 

Knowles,  Sheridan 264  |  Masson,  David 344 

Knox,  John 624    Mather,  Cotton 202 

I  Maturin,  Charles  R 415 

Laing,  Malcolm 397  |  Maxwell,  William  H 226 

Laing,  Samuel 344  j  Mayhew,  Henry 266 

Lamb,  Charles 36S    McClintock,  Sir  Leopold 344 

Landor,  Walter  S 378    McClure,  Sir  Robert 344 

Langlande,  Robert 626    MeCrie,  Thomas 397 

Lardner,  Dionysius 346    M'Culloch,  J.  Ramsay 379 

Latimer.  Hugh 6J4    Mclntosh,  Sir  James 397 

Layamon 627    Merlin 628 

Layard,  Austen  Henry 344    Mill,  James 397 

Lee.  Sophia 


Mill,  John  Stuart 346 

Leland.John 624    Miller,  Hugh 346 

Milman.  Henry  Hart 265 


Lemon,  Mark 266 

Lever,  Charles 225    Milnes,  Richard  Monckton 265 

Lewes,  George  Henry 344    Milton,  John 548 

Lewis,  Sir  George  C 345    Minot,  Laurence 626 

Lewis,  Matthew  Gregory 393    Mitford.  Mary 398 

Leyden,  John 414  j  Mitford,  William 397 

Lindsay,  Sir  David 624  !  Montagu  (Lady),  Mary  Wortley 520 

Lingard,  John 397    Montgomery,  James 414 

Livingstone,  David 344  " 


Locke ,  John 547 

Lockhart,  John  Gibson 344 

Logan,  John 414 

Longfellow,  Henry  Wadsworth 54 

Lord  Berners . .  624 


More,  Hannah 414 

More,  Sir  Thomas   623 

Morgan,  Lady   398 

Morier,  James 398 

Motherwell,  William 265 

Moore,  Henry 547 


Lord  Herbert 623    Moore,  John 

Lovelace,  Richard 558    Moore,  Thomas 413 

Lover,  Samuel 226    Motley,  John  Lothrop 

Lowell,  James  Russell 89  !  Mulock,  Dinah  Maria 226 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 


639 


PAOK. 

Murchison,  Sir  Roderick  

346 

Mure,  William  

345 

Murray,  Lindley  

191 

Napier,  William  

397 

Neale,  John   

201 

Nennius  

628 

Newton,  Sir  Isaac   

520 

Nicoll,  Robert  

265 

Occleve,  Thomas  

626 

Oliphant,  Laurence  

344 

Opie,  Amelia  

398 

Orm,  or  Ormin  

627 

Osborne,  Capt.  Sherrard  

344 

Ossian  

628 

Ossoli,  d',  Margaret  Fuller  

191 

Otway,  Thomas  

547 

Owen,  John   

547 

Owen,  Richard  

346 

Paine,  Thomas  

191 

Paley,  William  

471 

Palfrey,  John  Gorham  

189 

Palgrave,  Sir  Francis  

344 

Paris,  Matthew  

627 

Parker,  Theodore  

190 

Parnell,  Thomas  

520 

Patmore,  Coventry  

265 

Paulding,  James  Kirke  

200 

Payne,  John  Howard  

103 

Peabody,  Andrew  P  

190 

Penn,  William  

548 

Pepys,  Samuel  

558 

Percival,  James  Gates  

103 

Percy,  Thomas  

471 

Phillips,  Ambrose  

520 

Phillips,  John   

547 

Pierpont,  John  

103 

Pinkerton,  John  

397 

Plegmund   

628 

Poe,  Edgar  Allan  

100 

Pollok,  Robert  

415 

Pope,  Alexander  

472  i 

Porson  ,  Richard  

379 

Porter,  Anna  

398 

398 

Porter,  Josias    

344 

Praed,  Winthrop  Mackworth 

265 

Prescott,  William  Hickling  

202 

Prior,  Matthew  

547 

Procter,  Bryan  Walter  

265 

Purchas,  Samuel  

623 

Quarles,  Francis  

623 

Quincy,  Josiah  

202 

Radcliffe,  Anne 398 

Rae,  Dr 344 

Ragg,  Thoman  2ft5 

Raleigh,  Sir  Walter 821 

Ramsay,  Allan 530 

Ray,  John 5.VJ 

Reach,  Angus  B 221 

Reade,  Charles  \ 221 

Rcade,  John  Edmund 2fto 

Reed,  Henry 101 

Reid,  Mayne 229 

Reid,  Thomas 471 

Ricardo,  David 378 

Robinson,  Edward 189 

Rogers,  Samuel 413 

Roscoe,  William 397 

Rowe,  Nicholas 520 

Rush,  Benjamin 201 

Ruskin,  John 345 

Russell  (Lady),  Rachel 548 

Russell,  William  II 345 

Sackville,  Charles 547 

Sackville,  Thomas 622 

Fala,  George  Augustus 226 

Savage,  Richard 520 

Saxe,  John  Godfrey 103 

Scott,  Sir  Walter 385 

Sedgwick,  Catherine  Maria 200 

Sedley,  Charles 547 

Selden,  John 623 

Shakspeare,  William 565 

Sheil,  Richard  Lalor 266 

Shelley,  Mary 398 

Shelley,  Percy  Bysshe 414 

Shenstone,  William 470 

Sheridan,  Richard  Brinslcy 414 

Sherlock,  William 548 

Shirley,  James 623 

Sidney,  Algernon 558 

Sidney,  Sir  Philip 622 

Sigourney,  Lydia  Huntley 103,  200 

Simms,  William  Gilmorc 200 

Skelton,  John 623 

Smedley,  Frank   226 

Smith ,  Adam 471 

Smith,  Albert    226 

Smith,  Charlotte 398 

Smith,  Horace  414 

Smith,  James 414 

Smith,  Seba 201 

Smith,  Sydney 378 

Smith,  William 346 

Somcrville,  Mary 346 

Sothcrby,  William 414 


040 


INDEX   OF  AUTHORS. 


PAGE. 

South,  Robert 558 

Southey,  Robert 264 

Southey,  Caroline  Anne   264 

Southwell,  Robert 622 

Sparks.  Jared    202 

Spencer,  Hon.  William  R 414 

Spenser,  Edmund 619 

Sprague,  William  B 189 

Sprat,  Thomas 548 

Stanhope.  Earl 544 

Stanhope,  Philip  (Earl  of  Chesterfield),  520 

St.  Columbanus 628 

Steele,  Sir  Richard 520 

Sterne,  Laurence 471 

Stewart,  Dugald 378 

Stillingfleet,  Edward 548 

Strickland.  Agnes 344 

Strickland,  Elizabeth 344 

Strype.John 548 

St.  John,  Henry  (Viscount  Bolingbroke)  520 

Stowe,  Harriet  Beecher 200 

Suckling,  Sir  John 623 

Sullivan,  William 191 

Sumner,  Charles 275 

.Swain,  Charles 265 

Swift,  Jonathan 483 

Talfourd,  Sir  Thomas  Xoon    260 

Talk-Kin  628 

Tannahill.  Robert    414 

Taylor,  Bayard    192 

Taylor,  Henry 266 

Taylor,  Isaac 345 

Taylor,  Jeremy 558 

Taylor,  Tom 266 

Tennant,  William 415 

Tennent,  Sir  James  Emerson 344 

Temple,  Sir  William 558 

Tennyson,  Alfred 227 

Thackeray,  William  Makepeace    215 

Thirlwall,  Connop 344 

Thorn,  William 265 

Tickell,  Thomas 520 

Ticknor,  George 202 

Tighe,  Mary 414 

Tillotson,  John 558 

Tilton,  Theodore 103 

Tooke.  John  Home 378 

Trevisa,  de.  John 626 

Trollope.  Anthony 22"> 

Trollope,  Frances 398 

Trollope,  Thomas  A 515 

Tiickerman,  Henry  Theodore   191 

Tudor,  William 191 


PAOE. 

Tupper,  Martin  Farquhar    264 

Turner,  Sharon    397 

Tusser,  Thomas  622 

Ty ndale,  William 623 

Tytler,  Patrick  Eraser  397 

Udall,  Xicholas 624 

Ussher,  James 623 

Yanbrug,  Sir  John 548 

Vaughn,  Henry 5o8 

Vaughn,  Robert 344 

Vilatis,  Ordencus 627 

Wace    627 

Waller,  Edmund 558 

Walpole,  Horace 471 

Walton,  Izaak 623 

Warburton,  Eliot 344 

Ward  R.  Plumer 3<.)8 

Ware,  William 200 

Warren,  Samuel   226 

Warton,  Joseph 470 

Warton,  Thomas 470 

Waterton,  Charles 344 

Watts,  Alaric  Alexander 265 

Watts,  Isaac 520 

Wayland,  Francis    189 

Webster,  Daniel 286 

Webster.  Xoah. 191 

Wesley,  John 471 

Whately,  Richard   346 

Whewell,  William 346 

White,  Gilbert 471 

White,  Henry  Kirke 4U 

Whittier,  John  Greenleaf 67 

Whipplc,  Edwin  P l'>2 

William  of  Malmesbury 627 

Willis,  Nathaniel  Parker 86 

Wilmot,John   547 

Wilson,  Alexander 201,  379 

Wilson,  John 345 

Wilson,  Thomas 623 

Winthrop,  John 202 

Wirt,  William 191 

Wolfe.  Charles 415 

Woodworth,  Samuel ; 103 

Worcester,  Joseph  E 161 

Wordsworth,  William  242 

Wotton,  Sir  Henry 622 

Wyatt,  Sir  Thomas 624 

Wycherley,  William 548 

Wycliffe,  de,  John  626 

Wynkyn  de  Worde 624 

Wyntoun,  Andrew 626 


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